U 

V 


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SOUNDING  SEA 


AND  - 


OTHER  POEMS 


-BY 


JOHN   F.  GARVEY 


THE  HICKS-JUDD  Co. 

PRINTERS,  PUBLISHERS  AND   BOOKBINDERS 

SAN  FRANCISCO 

-1896- 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1896, 

BY  JOHN  F.  GARVEY. 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress  at  Washington,  D.  C. 


TO 

THE  UNKNOWN  BARDS 

WHOSE  UNSELFISH   DEVOTION   TO  THE  MUSE 
ARISES  ABOVE  ALL  OBSTACLES  OF  TIME,  PLACE  AND  SITUATION 

I  DEDICATE 

THIS  VOLUME  OF  POEMS 

With  Whatever  Apologies  Their  Demerits  May  Demand. 


*M  **&  <*  Vw* 

^nwf* &- 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

The  Sounding  Sea 9 

Address  to  the  Sons  of  Erebus 12 

To  an  Oriole 17 

The  Muse 18 

In  Potter's  Field 19 

The  Vision 23 

Address  to  the  Ghaist  of  Rabbie  Burns 26 

If  She  Should  Die 30 

Lizzie 31 

The  Great  Desideratum 33 

To  C.  H 39 

O  Jessie !   When  the  Day  Is  Done 40 

The  Fisherman's  Last  Farewell ,  41 

Ode  to  Disappointment 42 

Throckniorton , 44 

Lake  Merritt 46 

May  Was  a  Month  of  Varied  Hue 48 

London  Bridge  Is  Falling  Down 50 

Song— Sigh  Not  Fair  Maid „ 52 

Sonnets — Ferdinand  to  Medora 53 

Thy  rolling  orbs  I  gazed  upon  but  once— 53 

God  made  thee  for  a  purpose 53 

Alas  !     I  envy  the  absorbent  sun 54 

Betimes  I  linger  on  thy  happy  words 54 

The  thought  was  tender  when  the  night  was  long 55 

Men  taught  me  knowledge,  but  I  learnt  it  not 55 

The  lights  of  seven  centuries  grow  pale 56 

If  I  grow  riotous  with  early  love 56 

To  paint  the  virtues  of  a  given  soul 57 

Thy  spiritual  self  is  wed  with  mine 57 

Upon  the  fading  vision  of  each  day 58 

Test  not  the  merit  of  my  love  by  day 58 

Rather  seek  calmer  judgment  in  the  night 59 

Thy  servants  prosper  nobly  at  thy  will 59 

Wert  thou  by  nature  preordained  to  grant c 60 


Sonnets — Continued.  PAGK 

Why  cotnest  not  the  question  to  thy  mind 60 

Though  for  itself  truth  needs  no  advocate 61 

Gilding  report  and  making  it  seem  sweet 61 

To  blush  were  to  admit  unreasoned  facts 62 

The  month,  the  day,  the  hour,  and  the  event 62 

Who  is  this  upstart  that  doth  soil  thy  name 63 

0  sweet  felicity  !     O  gentle  song  ! 63 

1  may  not  live  to  prosecute  my  bent 64 

Build  me  no  cenotaph  when  my  last  breath 64 

This  simple  song  ne'er  had  a  preface  to  it 65 

Judge  me  not  by  my  looks  ! 65 

Religiously  I  scan  those  lesser  stars 66 

If  I  have  dared  to  love  thee,  'tis  enough 66 

When  I  make  merry  with  a  passive  soul 67 

Away  dull  care  !  and  all  thy  fears  away  ! 67 

Those  bald  distinctions  which  grow  poor  with  age 68 

No,  never,  on  my  honor  as  a  man 68 

I  late  beheld  an  Oriental  dame 69 

Things  mutable  and  curiously  strange 69 

While  those  twin  stars  that  glisten  'neath  thy  brow 70 

When  this  sad  panic  of  Dismay  doth  cease 70 

O,  how  unkind  are  these  my  thoughts  to  me 71 

Still  lives  the  love  of  seven  summers  sweet 71 

Being  thyself,  and  being  nothing  more 72 

Reckless  am  I  who  hath  no  star  to  guide  me 72 

Thou  in  thy  beauty  lookest  down  upon  me 73 

Pray,  what  are  names  to  thoughts  which  have  no  names  ?. .   73 

However  be  it  in  the  mind  of  man — 74 

I  am  not  rich  in  any  moral  mood 74 

Ivines  Written  to  a  Lady  About  to  Enter  a  Convent 75 

Song— I  Know  Not  Why,  Yet  Still  It  Seems 75 

Marcus  Aurelius  Antoninus 76 

Because 77 


N  publishing  this  first  volume  of  poems,  the  author  has  no  desire 
to  trespass  on  the  good  nature  of  the  public,  or  the  charity  of 
his  friends.  But  he  has  no  apology  to  offer,  or  ambition  to 
shine  for  other  than  what  he  is.  If  crudities  and  defects  are  sought 
for,  they  will  undoubtedly  be  found  in  plenty.  The  workmanship  is, 
owing  to  uncontrolable  circumstances,  unfinished ;  nor  are  the  themes 
classical.  In  common  with  his  fellow-man  he  must  submit  to  the 
demands  of  toil,  which  are  resolute  and  unflinching.  To  the  critic, 
the  author  has  this  to  say:  Knowing  full  well  that  poetry  "gains 
little  in  those  creeds  which  most  find  favor  in  the  public  eye,"  he 
hopes  the  fact  may  not  prejudice  them  against  an  unknown  versifier. 
Most  likely  they  would  resent  any  imputation  on  their  sincerity — 
albeit  such  is  not  in  anywise  questioned.  Yet,  it  cannot  be  gainsaid 
that  an  unheralded  poet  is  a  shining  mark  for  satire's  trenchant  pen. 
By  this,  the  author  has  no  desire  to  forestall  serious  criticism ; 
nothing  is  more  foreign  to  his  purpose.  Nevertheless,  he  hopes  these 
poems,  or  perhaps  more  properly  called  verses,  may  not  be  entirely 
in  vain.  But  whatever  is,  is.  'Tis  plain  they  contain  many  errors ; 
which  statement  may  prompt  some  to  ask,  why,  then,  did  he  publish  ? 
For  reasons  unknown  to  himself,  but  the  winds  may  answer — he 
cannot.  However,  he  is  desirous  of  doing  better.  He  may  or  may 
not  succeed.  Were  he  at  liberty  to  pursue  his  bent,  there  might,  at 
least,  be  some  remote  possibility  of  success.  As  it  is,  time,  to  which 
we  must  all  become  reconciled,  can  alone  judge.  Thus  wise,  and  in 
this  humor,  he  attempts  to  storm  the  citadels  of  conservatism,  or  as 
Tennyson  would  say,  passes  the  Rubicon. 


THE 

-; 
.<* 


THE  SOUNDING  SEA. 
The  Sea  !    The  Sea  \-Byron. 

Speak!  though  I  tremble  at  thy  voice; 

Speak,  mighty  force!  man  doth  rejoice 
To  hear  thee.     If  thou  hast  thy  faults, 
Be  not  ashamed,  though  Rumor  halts 

To  ridicule  thy  choice. 

Sad  sounding  sea!  the  whispering  wind 
With  apprehension  is  resigned; 
And  surely  from  all  envy  void, 
Beholds  thee  consciously  employed, 
Soothing  a  sadder  mind. 

Oh!  is  it  wrong  that  I  should  come, 
To  mock  thee  in  thy  cavern  home, 
With  simple  song  and  rueful  rhyme, 
Both  slaves  to  custom  born  of  time, 
And  both  more  burdensome  ? 

Hath  my  devotion  been  too  plain, 
Too  narrow,  or  too  much  for  gain  ? 
Am  I  a  child  of  fickle  art, 
That  I  can  never  lose  my  heart 
Without  losing  it  in  vain  ? 

Despairing  thus,  I  ofttimes  lay 

In  silence,  when  to  give  thought  play 

Were  but  a  hollow,  mocking  show. 

Yet  ever  have  I  sought  to  know 
What  thou  hast  sought  to  say. 


10  THE   SOUNDING   SEA. 

If  this  is  wrong,  I  sin,  and  sin, 
And  will  sin  on  until  I  win 

The  utmost  purpose  of  my  will. 

Then  only  can  my  mind  be  still 
And  quiet  reign  within. 

The  dear,  dead  days  that  are  not  dead 
Could  testify  to  what  I've  said 

And  what  I  never  more  may  tell; 

Tho'  unforgotten,  'tis  as  well 
Their  untimely  thoughts  have  fled. 

Their  thousand  secrets  manifold, 
That  long  hath  smoldered  in  the  gold 
And  russet  of  departed  years, 
Are  new-awakened  by  the  fears 
Their  memories  unfold. 

Yet,  what  a  blessed  thought  it  was, 
Whose  inspiration  made  me  pause 
Beside  thee;    for  I  since  learnt  well, 
That  nature  hath  great  truths  to  tell, 
In  a  most  noble  cause. 

I  saw  the  great  sun  lean  its  cheek 
Upon  a  cloud,  and  to  thee  speak; 
And  thereupon  I  did  conceive, 
That  charity  would  make  thee  grieve, 
And  pity  make  thee  weak. 

But  no!  the  same  indifferent  air, 
The  some  inhuman  cast  was  there; 
Thy  vaunted  pride  more  manifest 
In  that  vague  spirit  of  unrest 
Which  thou  dost  ever  wear. 


SOUNDING  SEA. 

The  fume,  the  fret,  the  tireless  nod 
Of  courtesy— all  passing  odd, 

And  very  strange;  one  constant  law; 

In  all  of  which  I  ever  saw 
The  handiwork  of  God. 

To  thee  the  silence  of  the  Sphinx 
Is  nothing;  or,  at  least,  it  sinks 

To  nothing,  measured  with  thy  pride. 

What  carest  thou,  in  any  tide, 
What  man  or  mortal  thinks  ? 

Men  call  thee  peaceful.     By  what  right  ? 
The  winds  of  the  majestic  night 

Kcho  no  voice  of  thine  that's  fair; 

Magnificent  thou  art,  but  there 
All  beauty  rests  and  light. 

The  earth,  the  air,  the  very  sky, 

And  one  all-penetrating  eye, 
Are  willing  witnesses  to  this, 
For  death,  foul  death,  is  in  thy  kiss, 

And  madness  in  thy  sigh. 

Therefore  I  love  thee!     Be  it  just, 
I  know  not.     Let  it  breed  distrust, 
I  care  not.     This  alone  is  plain  : 
I  love  thee!     If  I  love  in  vain, 
We  do  that  which  we  must. 


ADDRESS  TO  THE  SONS  OF  EREBUS. 

Vainglorious  the  deeds 

That  spring  from  cruel  creeds 

Of  crafty  men; 
Glory  nor  marks,  nor  cares, 
What  garb  dishonor  wears, 

Nor  why,  nor  when. 

It  is  enough  to  know 
That  Justice  still  will  grow 

And  still  endure; 
Though  something  by  that  name 
May  credit  her  with  shame, 

She  still  is  pure. 

If  lukewarm  courage  lives, 
It  nothing  gains  or  gives 

With  civic  pride  ; 
And  like  the  scum  of  time, 
Of  reason,  or  of  rhyme, 

Must  falsely  guide. 

Therefore,  ye  Sons  of  Night, 
Like  yon  vast  orbs  of  light, 

Know  first  thy  place! 
Ye  wage  a  fruitless  war, 
While  these,  thy  late-born,  are 

A  puny  race. 

Sooner  self  should  forgive 
The  self  that  cannot  live 

Fair  and  discreet; 
Sooner  thou  shouldst  deny 
The  generating  sigh 

With  each  heart-beat. 


ADDRESS  TO  THE  SONS   OF   EREBUS.  13 

A  one-time  noble  fire 
And  patriotic  ire 

Fast  die  away; 

And  conscience,  to  its  shame, 
Laughs,  and  the  answer's  lame, 

To  pride's  dismay. 

But  conscience  not  alone 
Gives  quarter,  for  ye  own 

A  deadlier  foe : 

Heart-selfishness  with  greed — 
The  insatiable  seed — 

These,  these  ye  sow. 

They  live,  they  bloom,  they  thrive; 
Yet  ever  burn  alive 

That  which  is  good; 
While  ye  that  know  the  fact 
Seem  powerless  to  act 

When  act  ye  should. 

God  gave  you  eyes  to  see; 
God  gave  you  liberty — 

This  was  to  rule! 
God  gave  you  ears  to  hear 
The  true,  the  mighty  seer, 

And  scorn  the  fool. 

God  gave  you  discontent, 
And  spirit  to  resent 

Earth's  present  wrongs; 
God  gave  you  wisdom,  brewed 
In  wisdom's  solitude, 

From  wisdom's  songs. 


14  ADDRESS  TO  THE  SONS  OF  EREBUS. 

Not  force,  but  reason's  lack 
Gives,  takes,  and  yet  gives  back 

What's  ever  thine. 
Then  why,  O  stubborn!  why 
This  penetrating  sigh, 

And  great  decline? 

'Tis  useless  to  deny 
The  art  of  sophistry 

And  guarded  speech; 
Ye  live,  not  what  ye  are, 
But  hide  soft  truth  afar 

From  mental  reach — 

Is  envy's  voice  yet  stilled  ? 
Is  poverty  self-willed  ? 

Is  judgment  calm  ? 
Is  charity  unjust, 
That  ye  doth  warrant  trust 

And  honor's  arm  ? 

Better  the  laws  that  live, 
Fair  and  contributive 

To  Reason's  throne; 
Better  the  light  that  failed, 
If  any  spark  prevailed, 

By  force  alone. 

Honor  means  something  more 
Than  strength  to  go  before, 

And  not  offend; 
Still  something  less,  as  well, 
Which  man  lacks  voice  to  tell 

Or  comprehend. 


ADDRESS   TO  THE   SONS   OF   EREBUS.  15 

All  things  live  by  thy  voice — 
Sufficiency  and  choice 

And  native  grace; 
And  this  rich,  rolling  earth 
Gives  noble  prospects  birth; 

And  time,  and  place. 

Then  rouse  thy  sullen  hearts — 
Those  rigid  counterparts 

Of  sin,  not  shame. 
Let  them  with  penance  bleed, 
Till  Mammon's  impure  creed 

Is  lost  to  fame. 

Since  ye  denied  the  Lord, 
Turned  penny-wise,  abhorred 

The  true,  the  just, 
There  is  no  present  peace, 
Nor  will  thy  yearnings  cease, 

Having  no  trust. 

Know,  therefore,  what  ye  owe, 
And  if  ye  be  so  low 

To  scorn  the  debt, 
Not  for  thyselves  alone 
Will  the  hereafter  moan 

With  vain  regret. 

A  race  as  yet  unborn, 
A  race  by  ye  foresworn 

Before  their  time; 
On  them  the  stigma  lies, 
And  likewise  multiplies 

And  breeds  the  crime. 


1<>  ADDRESS  TO   THE   SONS  OF   EREBUS. 

What  think  ye  then  of  this  ? 
What  little  can  ye  miss  ? 

Truly  no  grace. 
There  is  more  joy  confined 
In  one  pure,  sinless  mind 

Than  all  thy  race. 

Morose,  ill-tempered  Sons ! 
Thy  span  of  life  now  runs 

O'er  shallow  beds; 
While  crafty  knaves  uphold 
Bright,  flaming  swords  of  gold 

Above  thy  heads. 

Be  wise  and  grasp  them  not, 
For  they  are  keen  and  hot 

From  Vulcan's  forge. 
They  cut  deep  to  the  bone, 
Nor  skill  can  stay  the  groan 

Or  bloody  gorge. 

But  must  ye  still— still  doubt  ? 
Must  Modesty  cry  out 

Her  many  wrongs  ? 
Will  no  great  sage  arise, 
And  shame  thy  inbred  lies 

With  simple  songs? 

Oh!  for  the  perfect  day, 
That  comes  and  goes  away, 

And  leaves  no  sting! 
Oh!  for  a  mighty  tide, 
To  swamp  this  hellish  pride, 

And  give  truth  swing! 


TO  AN  ORIOLE.  17 

Oh!  for  an  uncoined  word 
To  terrorize  when  heard, 

For  ye  are  blind! 
Oh!  that  ye  may  behold, 
What  blessings  manifold 

Live  undivined! 


TO  AN  ORIOLE. 

Stay,  thou  heavenly  throated  singer, 

Condescendingly  awhile, 
In  the  tree-tops  linger,  linger; 

Here  is  freedom,  yonder  guile. 

'Tis  the  hour  of  silent  sadness, 
Shrouded  is  the  mind  in  gloom, 

Let  thy  bubbling  songs  of  gladness 
Ring  where'er  the  cowslips  bloom. 

Listen !  thy  lone  mate  is  calling, 
Watchful  eye  and  woful  heart. 

Lo  !  the  withered  leaves  are  falling, 
Summer,  Summer  must  depart. 

Bird  of  promise,  of  unreason, 
Time  is  e'er  a  niggard  knave, 

Thou,  the  herald  of  the  season, 

Know  not  why  the  days  grow  grave. 

Siug,  and  may  my  thoughts  grow  lighter; 

Sing,  the  sun  is  on  the  wane; 
Sing,  for  yon  faint  star  grows  brighter, 

And  we  may  never  meet  again. 


THE   MUSE. 

Like  the  stormy  petrel  winging 
O'er  the  wide,  unfathomed  sea, 

Conies  the  echoes'  constant  ringing 

Of  the  unknown  voices,  singing: 
She  will  love  all  else  but  thee! 

She  to  whom  thy  soul  is  singing, 
She  will  love  all  else  but  thee! 

Still  the  fields,  the  fields  Elysian, 
Where  immortal  spirits  dwell, 

Haunt  me  like  a  ghostly  vision, 

Wavering  between  decision, 
Whispering — ah!  pain  to  tell; 

All  unconscious  of  decision, 
Whispering — ah!  pain  to  tell. 

Picture  of  our  phantom  allies; 

Paint  to  nature,  point  to  straw; 
Votive  of  the  flame  that  dallies 
With  the  heart's  vainglorious  sallies, 

Bent  to  show  the  gaping  flaw. 
With  the  heart's  spontaneous  sallies 

Bent  to  show  the  gaping  flaw. 

Oft  the  misty  clouds  seem  breaking, 
Hopeful  sunshine  bathes  the  lea; 

Then  the  voices,  unforsaking, 

Bid  me  cease  my  undertaking, 
Saying,  she  will  love  not  thee; 

Cease  a  fruitless  undertaking, 
She  will  love  all  else  but  thee. 

Yet  I  love  the  ages  hoary 

When  she  laved  full  many  a  brow ; 
May  she  live  the  noble  glory- 
All,  and  all  in  all  of  story, 

And  no  barren  claim  allow. 


IN  POTTER'S  FIELD. 

Sweet  mignonettes!  sure  ye  were  blest  indeed, 
When  left  to  bloom  in  these  unhallowed  grounds, 

In  fitting  contrast  to  the  haughty  reed 

That  scorns  thee  for  thy  birth  in  alien  mounds; 

Yet  thou,  ill-nurtured  like  an  unkempt  weed, 
Doth  lovelier  thrive  where  poverty  abounds. 

Ye  purchased,  true,  a  poor  inheritance, 

Purchased,  and  yet  paid  nothing,  nothing  owed; 

But  with  indifference  thou  dost  advance 

Thy  own  small  fortunes,  whilst  a  heavy  load 

Is  lifted  from  the  eyes  that  look  askance 
At  man's  ingratitude  in  this  abode. 

O  hoary  fate  and  furtherance  of  time! 

Thus  consecrated  are  the  years  we  shed. 
What  threnody  can  make  their  absence  chime 

With  this  uncertainty  ?     Here,  hope  lies  dead 
And  buried  with  the  lives  whose  only  crime 

Was  to  be  better  than  the  world  they  fled. 

Let  contrite  ones  drop  participles  here, 

And  wither  with  the  nature  of  the  spot, 
Marking  a  tension  of  unholy  fear, 
,    For  thus,  unwitting  may  they  be  forgot 
When  life's  contractions  and  an  unspanned  year 
Doth  doom  them  to  some  likewise  measured  plot. 

Love's  glittering  consummation,  and  the  hope, 
Breathing  the  prescience  of  an  argent  light 

That  shines  from  heaven,  may  lose  their  crystal  scope, 
And  seem  by  retrospect  a  baneful  blight 

In  this  quadrature,  whose  lean  arms  doth  ope 
To  ush  the  heedless  to  eternal  night. 

19 


20  IN  POTTER'S  FIELD. 

Well  may  the  moon  and  all  too-purple  sun 
In  mutual  pity  burn  their  caudles  out; 

For  here,  no  monumental  shadows  run 

To  leave  a  wonder,  fashioned  from  a  doubt; 

Nor  for  a  moment  is  the  soul  undone 
By  spirits  mighty,  militant,  devout. 

Nay!  nothing  can  afford  the  eye  delight, 

Nor  grace,  nor  symmetry  indulge  their  kind; 

Earth  seems  at  variance  with  the  woful  sight 
That  mars  her  famed  escutcheons  out  of  mind, 

And  humbles  mortals  with  a  darling  spite, 
To  bruit  the  failures  humor  hath  designed. 

The  bluebird  sings  her  melancholy  song 
As  if  sweet  music's  tones  were  ill-bestowed; 

Whilst  nothing  can  her  measured  stay  prolong 
Beyond  one  short  and  transitory  ode; 

But  quickly  flying  hence  proclaims  the  wrong 
That  lies  unsheltered  in  the  public  road. 

O  unjust  man!  to  spite  the  living  dead 

Why  dost  thou  worm  thy  hatred  to  the  grave  ? 

With  bare-faced  calummy,  oft  hast  thou  said  : 
That  they  who  died  left  nothing  time  could  save 

To  fame's  delight.     Dwells  there  no  shame,  no  dread, 
No  honored  crypts  thou  may'st  hereafter  crave  ? 

Thou  generous  earth  that  coverest  these  bones, 
Let  not  the  fates  expose  th'  unguarded  truth, 

Nor  foul-mouthed  beasts  with  their  discordant  tones 
Mock  homely  sympathy  and  honest  ruth 

Of  unforgetful  maidenhood  that  owns 

The  love  of  kindred  or  the  friend  of  youth. 


IN  POTTER'S  FIELD.  21 

Such  lone  exceptions  are,  by  heaven's  grace, 
Pearls  that  are  valued  not  by  weight  of  gold 

Or  sacriligious  bribes.     They  find  a  place 
Where  honor  is  as  sacred  as  of  old; 

Where  chastity  is  written  in  the  face, 

And  simple  sweetness  scorns  the  ages  bold. 

I,ong  service  to  the  world's  desire  hath  turned 

Our  boasted  pride  to  foulest  villainy; 
Wherein  base  selfishness  hath  deeply  burned 

Its  special  stamp,  and  ev'ry  eye  may  see 
How  little  we  with  virtue  are  concerned, 

Though  feigning  love  and  whole-souled  piety. 

What  equal  lights  our  consciences  demand 

Is  nothing  to  the  purpose  or  the  will. 
Platonic  love  and  sin  go  hand  in  hand, 

And  'tis  a  verity,  their  creed  will  kill 
The  favorite  flower  of  a  favored  land, 

Who  prophesy  what  time  cannot  fulfil. 

Oh,  pause!  ye  merrymakers,  pause  awhile; 
•Feigned  gaiety  mocks  reverence  withal; 
Thy  sires  sleep  uneasy  in  exile, 

And  ye  hath  witnessed  their  degrading  fall — 
Aye!  sold  them  into  slavery  by  guile, 

Profaning  death  with  this  impious  scrawl — 

On  yonder  heights  a  mercer's  body  lies 

Beneath  a  sculptured  sepulchre  of  art, 
Whose  granite  concave  cleaves  the  western  skies, 

And  craves  distinction  in  each  well-turned  part; 
Yet  never  he  beheld  with  spirit  eyes, 

An  angel  with  forgiveness  in  her  heart. 


22  IN  POTTER'S  FIELD. 

His  life  was  one  long  pestilential  curse, 
Wherein  no  tie  was  sacred  to  his  love. 

The  orphan's  plight,  the  widow's  empty  purse, 
Attest  how  his  rapacious  greed  didst  move 

Desire  within  him  ;  yet  the  psalmer's  verse 
Told  how  the  seraphs  welcomed  him  above. 

Out  on  such  infamy  !  ye  knew  him  well 

And  with  what  charity  he  held  thy  cause — 

Ye  servant  millions.     Oh,  what  truth  to  tell, 
But  where  the  tongue  to  utter  it !     The  laws 

Were  bent  to  serve  his  purpose,  nor  rebel 
Against  the  pressure  of  unjust  applause. 

Yet  here  behold  the  unmarked  grave  of  one 
Who  lived  an  honest  man  and  nothing  more. 

But  'tis  presumption  to  dilate  upon 

The  virtues  his,  the  vices  he  forebore — 

Unfortunate  in  fortune,  and  the  sun 
Of  his  omnipotence  is  clouded  o'er. 

Bland  spot,  farewell !     Darkness  veil  thou  mine  eyes! 

And  thou  free  wind  from  yon  Pacific  seas 
Perform  thy  holy  orisons  ;  nor  rise, 

Reticent  stars  ;  ye  that  didst  whilom  ease 
Who  sleep  within.  Let  not  their  souls  surmise 

That  they  in  dying  lived  to  thus  displease. 


THE  VISION. 

Land  of  the  icy  north, 

Land  of  the  polar  bear, 
Stem  thy  tempestuous  wroth; 

Base-born  renown  forswear. 

Isle  of  the  midland  sea, 
Isle  of  the  lukewarm  wave, 

Reared  to  immensity, 

Yield  what  thy  birthright  gave. 

Mount  of  the  golden  shore, 

Shasta  in  white  array, 
False  to  thy  milk-white  floor, 

Tremble  and  mark  this  day. 

Foil  of  the  Arctic  blast, 
Sweet  semi-tropic  zone, 

Seek  in  thy  largess  vast 
Wonders  as  yet  unknown. 

Day  of  the  fiery  morn, 
Night  of  the  starless  pall, 

Why  dost  thou  not  forewarn 
They  who  would  tether  all  ? 

Harken!  the  universe 

Champs  at  its  iron  bit; 
See  how  it  doth  disperse 

They  who  would  temper  it! 

God!  but  the  sculptured  qlay, 
Dumb  as  Amphion's  bride, 

Moves  with  impassioned  sway; 
Feels  all  the  hand  denied. 


23 


lM  THE   VISION. 

Earth  of  the  nether  world, 
Brood  thou  with  heavy  care; 

Worms  in  thy  alcoves  curled, 
Move  with  uneasy  air. 

King  of  the  leaden  heart, 
Queen  of  the  purple  throne, 

Draw  thy  slow  lids  apart, 
Scoff  and  thou'lt  scoff  alone. 

Man  with  the  subtle  soul, 
Stand  and  behold  thy  fate  ; 

List  to  the  mournful  dole 

From  the  proud-born  of  state. 

Witness  the  pending  clash, 
Death  is  the  woful  meed; 

Note  twixt  the  lightning  flash, 
Bent  of  the  blood-red  reed. 

Stem  of  the  erring  one, 

Where  roams  thy  progeny  ? 

Hate  which  was  cast  upon 
Their  heads  returns  to  thee. 

Drink  from  the  wormwood  cup, 
Bitter  the  taste,  you  vow  ? 

Oft  hast  thou  filled  it  up, 

Filled,  nor  didst  drink  till  now. 

Lord,  how  the  pregnant  air 
Sufles  with  fearful  stench  ; 

Black  clouds  with  fraughtful  care 
O'er  yonder  hills  entrench. 


THE   VISION.  25 

Hark,  now  !  the  deist's  oath, 

Launched  is  to  heavy  space, 
Hurled  back  with  echoes'  growth, 

Smites  full  the  skeptic's  face. 

Slain  in  his  beaten  track; 

Black  turns  his  body's  wall; 
Flee  !  flee  !  and  look  not  back, 

Lot's  fate  may  wait  ye  all. 

Loud  roars  the  savage  beast, 

Short  snaps  the  lion's  tail, 
Fierce  for  the  coming  feast — 

God,  let  thy  will  prevail ! 

Judgment  hath  come  to  pass: 

This,  the  eternal  day, 
Strikes  dumb,  alas  !  alas  ! 

Hearts  of  unyielding  clay. 

False  was  the  prophet's  pray'r; 

False  was  his  prophecy; 
Earth's  holy  fanes  the  snare 

Where  he  enforced  his  fee. 

Hush!  hush!  breathe  nevermore. 

Die!  die!  and  dead  remain. 
Farewell,  retreating  shore— 

Christ  Child  is  born  again. 


ADDRESS  TO  THE  GHAIST  OF  RABBIE  BURNS. 

Braw  singer,  ye  hae  wandered  lang, 
Frae  Coila's  heaths,  where  whilom  rang 
The  merrie  echoes  o'  thy  sang 

In  lays  sae  tunefu'  ; 
The  lyre  hae  laist  its  master  twang, 

An'  bards  grown  runefu'. 

The  daisies  i'  the  moorlan'  pine, 

An'  a'  the  melancholy  kine 

Hae  dootsum  step  an'  dowie  eyne 

Alang  the  field  ; 
While  ilka  day  they  fret  an'  whine 

Wi'  wrinkled  eild. 

The  golden  starns  blink  i'  the  sky, 
An'  loe-lorn  lassies  aften  sigh 
Wi'  tears  encased  i'  ilka  eye— 

Ah  1  na  vain  habbie  ; 
E'en  a'  the  little  bairnies  cry 

Fae  sangs  o'  Rabbie. 

Sae  maun,  I  ken,  ye  dinna  seek 

To  twitch  the  conscience  o'  th'  weak, 

But  brawley,  an'  wi'  patience  meek, 

Wad  aften  gaze 
I'  pity  on  their  sins,  na  speak 

O'  blasted  days. 

Na  hae  they  kend  thy  muse  fae  naught, 
But  found  the  rustic  grace  they  sought 
Amang  thy  leaves  o'  lear,  fu'  straught 

An'  free  o'  guile  ; 
Nane  winna  doot  what  they  hae  brought 

An'  pleased  the  while. 


ADDRESS   TO   THE   GHAIST   OF   RABBIE   BURNS.  27 

Ah  !  well  may  ilka  pilgrim  pause 
Beside  the  tomb  that  overawes, 
An'  teaches  them  the  giftie's  cause 

Twixt  waefu'  wheeze ; 
Then  steal  awa'  to  gie  applause 

Wi'  moistened  e'es. 

Fu'  mony  hours  sleeps  the  rose, 
Afore  the  tented  nursling  blows  ; 
Yet  sum  dark  nicht  'twill  a'  repose 

An'  fade  awa' 
Frae  this  bleak  warl  o'  muckle  prose, 

Ilk  luve's  ain  star. 

An'  if  the  ghaists  o'  simmer  days 
Dance  lang  whyle  fulsum  fancy  plays 
Her  diverse  tunes  an'  canny  lays, 

What  matters  it  ? 
Maun  's  seldom  guid,  that  seldom  weighs, 

A  fruitfu'  wit. 

Wha  winna  reconcile  the  fair, 
Wi'  ilka  mood  o'  wardly  care, 
If  the  puir  heart  is  lacken  there 

To  gie  us  pleasure  ; 
An'  ilk  thysel'  as  aft  despair 

Ayont  a'  measure. 

Gin  sonsy  lassies  fu'  o'  pride, 
An'  honest  laddies  lang  denied, 
Nae  mair  in  looing  bliss  reside. 

Ane  stubborn  pen 
May  well  forget  thine  able  guide, 

But  nae  till  then. 


28  ADDRESS  TO   THE   GHAIST   OF   RABBIE   BURNS. 

Though  Scotia  hae  been  charged  wi'  lack 
O'  ripened  wit — sic  vain  attack 
Frae  spitefu'  anes  is  hurl'ed  back 

To  they  that  gie  it  ; 
Let  pridefu'  fools  their  numbskulls  rack, 

Thy  notes  belee  it. 

Fae  ye  couldst  sae  unfauld  a  tale 
To  make  the  wanton  deathly  pale, 
Or  else  provoke  a  hearty  gale, 

O'  honest  laughter  ; 
Whyle  I  in  simple  sadness  fail 

By  smiling  after. 

'Tis  thusly  mortals  winna  see 
How  merit  is  divorced  i'  me  ; 
Yet  dowua  I  help  framing  thee 

In  some  rude  verses, 
E'en  if  they  only  bring  as  fee 

A  critic's  curses. 

But  deil-I-care;  thy  jigging  tune 
Hae  led  me  to  the  "  Bonnie  Boon," 
Where  aft  I  saw  the  golden  moon 

Shine  owre  it ; 
An'  troth,  I  winna  part  fu'  soon 

Frae  sic  a  fit. 

Mair  ease  to  girnin,  wizen'd  maun, 
Wha  wi'  a  wat'ry  e'e  may  con 
The  prosy  work  o'  an'  auld  Don, 

Mair  ease  I  say; 
But  happier  I  when  dreaming  on 

The  fields  o'  Ayr. 


ADDRESS   TO   THEJ  GHAIST   OF   RABBIE   BURNS.  29 

The  fause  wi'  pride  are  lappin'  up 
Wi'  greedy  aspect  at  each  sup, 
The  doctored  dregs  frae  folly's  cup, 

To  leave  behind 
A  name  at  ilka  stage  corrup' 

An'  unrefined. 

Sic  hath  the  guid  in  life  became 
Ill-sotted  that  our  mither  hame 
Is  a'  agley,  an*  ilk  the  same 

Whadiedawa'; 
But  stirred  the  ashes  o'  luve's  flame 

Wi'  hell's  ain  paw. 

An'  aft  methinks  a'm  owre  lost 

When  by  sic  wheezlin'  churls  a'm  crossed, 

An'  by  their  daein's  tempest-tossed 

Frae  space  to  earth; 
But  this  airt  naithing  to  thy  cost 

Na  social  worth. 

Aboon  the  yird,  amang  the  skies, 

Ye  soarest  where  the  proud  yearn  flies, 

Frae  ilka  danger  that  belies 

Our  warl  below ; 
Where  each  new  year  but  amplifies 

The  mony's  woe. 

An'  ilk  the  clouds  that's  hurled  apace 
By  simmer  winds  unto  the  chase 
O'  phantom  faes  that  flood  the  space 

O'  upper  air ; 
Thou  dost  sae  fill  my  soul  wi'  grace, 

O'  luve  most  fair. 


30  IF  SHE  SHOULD   DIE. 

'Tis  not  auld  Scotia's  doom  tae  dee 
Frae  cauld  neglectit,  na  tae  see 
The  banefu'  hand  o'  calumny 

Laid  on  her  urns  ; 
Fae  she  will  ever  live  i'  thee, 

Bold  Rabble  Burns. 

Sae  now  fareweel !  gie  my  respects 
To  a'  the  muse-inspired  elects, 
Wha  living  were  the  architects 

O'  deathless  sangs  ; 
Their  clearer  wisdom  aft  reflects 

These  deeper  wrangs. 


IF  SHE  SHOULD  DIE. 

If  she  should  die — O  most  unhappy  day! 

I  would  call  thee  unhappy  in  my  lay. 
Though  thou  mightst  not  seem  joyless  on  thy  face, 
Yet  inwardly  methinks  mine  eye  could  trace 

Something  of  sadness  to  thy  own  dismay. 

Harp  not  on  death,  world-weary  heart,  I  pray; 
'Tis  ill  of  thee.     Let  others  only  say: 

It  pleaseth  God.     In  me  no  joy  hath  place 
If  she  should  die. 

What  skilful  alchemist  could  then  convey 
To  life  the  love  that  lives  in  voiceless  clay  ? 

Nothing  of  sweetness  bred  'neath  heaven's  space, 
Nothing  of  woman  nor  of  woman's  grace, 
But  to  whose  charms  I  fain  would  answer:  nay ! 
If  she  should  die. 


LIZZIE. 

O  Life!  that  teemed  with  wondrous  bliss, 
When  Lizzie's  hopes  were  young, 

Where  are  thy  joys  which  seemed  to  kiss 
The  days  that  lived  unsung  ? 

The  years  were  honest  with  themselves, 

And  generous  to  me, 
But  now  my  spirit  ever  delves 

WTith  their  uncertainty. 

For  Lizzie,  once  the  daylight's  sun, 

Is  listed  with  an  age 
That  marks  a  gaping  void  upon 

An  elsewise  worthy  page. 

If  she  oft  loved  her  lightsome  mood, 

And  I  a  mood  of  care, 
Her  gaiety  was  not  the  food 

To  strengthen  man's  despair. 

She  oft  was  petulant,  she'd  own, 

Which  guardedly  I  claimed, 
Yet  chastity  hath  in  her  grown 

To  something  higher  famed. 

Though  prodigal  in  that  which  I, 

Mayhap,  would  welcome  less; 
Untempered,  too,  and  nowise  shy, 

Which  these  same  traits  confess. 

Whene'er  she  owned  a  sin  or  two, 

'Twas  I  withheld  the  same, 
Yet  hers  were  simple  ones  and  few, 

But  mine — Oh,  spare  the  name! 

31 


.    LIZZIE. 

AH  her  ripe  qualities  outweighed 
The  thoughts  that  gave  them  birth; 

Therefore  her  higher  nature  played 
A  spotless  role  on  earth. 

However  meant,  she  loved  to  doubt 

The  sinfulness  of  me, 
And  this  it  was  that  drew  her  out 

To  a  minute  degree. 

But  she  was  rich — Oh,  rich  in  love! 

Which  is  of  all  things  rare; 
With  what  avail  ?    The  end  thereof 

Is  death,  and  death  will  dare 

The  pleasures  of  a  happy  girl, 
Whom  nature  called  a  sister, 

And  fate  hath  urned  my  priceless  pearl 
Kre  woman's  sunshine  kissed  her. 

Camellias  now  bloom  o'er  her  grave, 

Pure  as  the  fair  soul  hither, 
And  oft  in  autumn-time  I  crave 

A  wish  like  them  to  wither. 

Though  these  sweet  messengers  do  tell 

That  Lizzie  is  at  peace, 
Yet  it  were  better  I  that  fell 

Than  her  young  life  should  cease. 

No  promise  can  the  world-gods  hold, 
No  rest  when  cold  stars  glisten, 

Her  footsteps  on  the  paths  of  gold 
Are  sounds  for  which  I  listen. 

Oh,  would  I  knew  their  gentle  fall 
And  her  melodious  laughter! 

Oh,  would  that  she  would  deign  to  call, 
What  matter  what  thereafter! 


THE  GREAT  DESIDERATUM. 

I  must  be  sad  when  1  have  cause  and  smile  at  no  man's  jest.— Shakespeare. 

Love  rises  to  affluent  heights, 

And  hearts  that  love  may  joy  therein; 

I/>ve  is  the  queen  of  all  delights, 
But  sorrow  is  the  sweetest  sin. 

Ask  this  of  the  immortal  stars, 

And  all  their  tongues  of  flame  are  dumb; 

Ask  yon  bright  orb  that  midway  bars 
The  light  that  is  from  that  to  come. 

No  answer,  but  a  silent  scorn; 

For  there  the  naked  truth  is  plain: 
To  ev'ry  life  is  sorrow  born 

Which  comes  and  goes  and  comes  again. 

Then  tell  me  not  that  this  is  this, 

Nor  bid  me  find  nepenthe  here; 
I  only  know  that  which  I  miss 

Was  never  to  me  less  than  dear; 

Was  never  to  me  less  than  sweet; 

Was  never  to  me  less  than  fair; 
Therefore  I  hold  it  fully  meet 

If  I  should  wither  with  despair. 

Confine  ray  sorrow  and  my  wo 

With  me,  myself,  the  inner  man, 
But  let  my  stricken  shadow  go 

Where'er  it  will,  whene'er  it  can. 

My  influential  star  lies  hid 

In  yon  vast  field  of  native  blue; 
I  know  it !  for  the  grave's  low  bid 

Was  higher  than  my  life  was  true; 

33 


34  THE  GREAT   DESIDERATUM. 

Nor  yet  so  high  that  all  my  love 
Was  conquered  by  an  earthly  storm. 

The  heart's  great  fulness  is  above 
The  vanities  of  face  and  form. 

And  truth  dares  match  itself  with  truth, 
When  time  with  time  is  all  concerned; 

It  must  be,  though  the  gods  of  youth 
Are  ever  dead,  forever  urned. 

Then  let  me  love  and  give  my  heart 
To  she  who  hath  no  heart  to  give; 

Let  wisdom  play  its  valiant  part 
Where  sorrow  is  designed  to  live. 

Better  to  sign  a  bond  with  death, 
That  nowise  scorner  of  a  knave, 

Than  own  with  treachery  a  breath 
That  lies  to  make  itself  seem  brave; 

That  lies  to  make  itself  seem  gay 
When  gaiety  is  not  its  friend; 

If  joy  may  fashion  out  its  day 
Then  sorrow  too  may  not  offend. 

Not  that  a  holocaust  were  made 
Of  all  the  supreme  bliss  of  earth; 

Not  that  th'  unwilling  self  were  laid 
Where  all  things  have  a  common  birth. 

But  only  a  distinction  drawn, 

And  from  the  works  of  man  apart, 

When  sorrow's  penetrating  thorn 

Wounds  deep  th'  already  wounded  heart. 


THE    GREAT    DESIDERATUM.  35 

I  say  'tis  well  who  found  it  so — 

Afflictions  have  a  just  reward; 
I  say  'tis  well,  and  then  I  know 

All  things  are  but  the  work  of  God. 

And  He  knows  best  that  which  is  best 

For  me  or  this  soul  part  of  me; 
And  am  I  not  then  doubly  blest 

In  knowing  what  I  cannot  see  ? 

Were  I  a  witness  to  the  growth 

Of  just  a  simple,  lupin  flower, 
My  faculties  were  nothing  loth 

To  rail  against  the  God  of  power. 

Because  I  cannot  see,  I  feel 

There  is  a  something  hid  from  sight; 
Because  I  cannot  see,  I  kneel 

And  pray  to  her  who  knew  the  right; 

And  pray  to  her  who  witnessed  things 
Which  were  withheld  from  many  men, 

Whose  scope  is  narrowed  down  to  kings 
Ot  reason  and  of  mortal  ken. 

For  folly  and  the  like  of  such 

She  was  not  preordained  a  child; 
Though  truth,  made  plain  by  her  soft  touch, 

Is  still  by  humankind  reviled. 

Yet  reason  and  the  reason  given 

To  she,  inspired  in  her  deeds, 
Still  lives,  attracting  souls  to  heaven 

That  otherwise  were  sluggish  weeds. 


.".('•  THE   GREAT   DESIDERATUM. 

But  lo  !  this  inward  pulseless  void 
Bears  witness  to  a  void  without; 

Her  light,  which  I  might  have  enjoyed, 
Is  missing  from  a  world  of  doubt. 

Why  is  it  thus?     Why  should  it  be  ? 

Why  should  her  heav'n-born  spirit  fly  ? 
Karth's  godless  mortals  thrive,  but  she, 

Whom  Virtue  loved,  must  pine  and  die. 

What  prophecy  is  in  the  deed  ? 

What  hope  hath  blest  its  nature  since  ? 
Where  is  the  key  to  such  a  creed  ? 

Oh,  tell  me  God  !  for  I  am  dense  ? 

Oh,  tell  me  God  !  though  I  am  base 
To  question  any  act  of  Thine, 

If  I  do  sin  and  fall  from  grace, 
How  much  of  it  is  sin  of  mine  ? 

Great  Questioner  of  thoughtless  man, 
Is  there  aught  hope  for  such  as  I  ? 

Am  I  foredoomed  to  live  my  span 
Forever  and  do  naught  but  sigh  ? 

Forever  distant  from  a  soul 

With  whom  Thou  did'st  of  late  commune; 
Fore'er  disputing  Time's  control; 

Forever  out  of  sense  and  tune. 

The  very  essence  and  the  sum 

Of  all  my  love  I  freely  give; 
Yet  life  is  lonely,  cumbersome, 

In  truth  I  am  not  fit  to  live. 


THE   GREAT   DESIDERATUM.  37 

In  truth  I  am  not  fit  to  die, 

And  wherefore  may  I  then  abide  ? 
It  matters  not.     If  she  is  nigh 

My  soul's  one  wish  is  not  denied. 

However  man  may  be  displeased 

To  me  'tis  nothing  that  I  owe  ; 
My  own  is  mine ;  nor  am  I  leased 

To  dress  my  life  for  empty  show. 

The  memory  of  what  has  been 

Will  never  change  its  bountied  son ; 

And  all  things  that  are  unforeseen 
May  end  as  they  have  all  begun. 

Or  leave  their  willing  marks  behind 

As  outposts  to  posterity  ; 
For  that  which  is,  is  well  designed, 

And  that  which  is  not,  cannot  be. 

Thus  from  a  seeming  chaos  born, 

Nowhere  that  any  can  divine, 
May  rise  a  glorious-lighted  morn, 

Than  any  that  hath  yet  been  mine. 

But  even  granting  it,  and  so 

Presuming  that  the  wish  is  dear, 
This  self-bound  spirit  will  not  know 

It  is  the  day  of  all  the  year. 

There  is  a  victory  in  death, 

That  victory  it  may  not  love, 
Yet  sings,  too,  with  its  latest  breath 

For  she  who  knew  it  will  approve ; 


38  THE   GREAT   DESIDERATUM. 

For  she  who  knew  it  soon  beheld 
The  truth  made  practical  and  plain; 

Alas  !  too  soon,  nor  yet  rebelled 
For  she  is  happy  in  the  gain. 

And  in  the  face  of  this  despite, 
This  great  and  counteracting  ill, 

Things  are  denied  me  which  were  light 
To  my  once  unrestrain'ed  will. 

A  quotient  of  the  years  to  come, 
A  resume  of  years  long  dead, 

Is  little  to  the  mighty  sum 

Of  burdens  passing  o'er  my  head. 

Yet,  notwithstanding  it,  the  past, 
I  can  rehearse  without  a  moan  ; 

As  if  my  yesterdays  were  cast 
In  cold,  imperishable  stone. 

Nor  mine  alone,  but  those  of  whom 
Words  were  not  made  to  fitly  speak  ; 

Her  innocence  will  oft  find  room 
To  show  the  world  why  I  am  weak. 

Though  good-intentioned  deeds  seem  vain, 
And  well-conceiving  words  are  crossed, 

And  sneering,  carping  wits  complain, 
Yet  all  is  not  forever  lost. 

The  present  cannot  hold  the  mind 

Inviolate  to  its  own  aim  ; 
It  must,  it  will  soar  to  its  kind, 

And  that's  the  all  of  all  I  claim. 


THE   GREAT   DESIDERATUM.  39 

If  then  the  arbiter  of  time 

Accuses  me  of  selfish  thought, 
I  own  it,  but  it  was  no  crime  ; 

I  own  it,  though  it  came  unsought. 

And  I  am  thankful  it  is  so, 

Since  it  hath  thusly  came  to  be; 
What  it  may  prove  I  do  not  know, 

Its  punishment  is  sweet  to  me. 

Man  was  not  born  in  perfect  grace — 

Perfection  only  dwells  above  ; 
Nor  can  his  any  deed  efface 

The  immortality  of  love. 


TO  C.  H. 

Oft  have  I  craved  the  wisdom  of  that  bard 
Who  listed  in  the  Promethean  ranks 
Unheralded;  with  it  I  could  give  thanks 

In  no  ambiguous  key.     Alas  !  'tis  hard 

When  such  unequal  words  my  thoughts  retard, 
And  leaves  me  drifting  like  those  mountebanks 
Of  feudal  times.     Yet  my  young  pranks 

I  fain  would  never  fully  disregard; 

They  teach  me,  Clifford,  in  what  proper  light 
To  look  upon  thee;  and  'tis  evident 

I've  squared  the  circle  in  my  soul  to-night 
By  thy  soft  words  and  gentle  argument. 

But  for  thine  aid,  I  were  a  slave  to  pelf — 

You  knew  me  better  than  I  knew  myself. 

-JANUARY  5, 1891. 


O  JESSIE!    WHEN  THE  DAY  IS  DONE. 

O  Jessie!  when  the  day  is  done 

To  thee  my  thoughts  revert; 
Their  own  true  nature  dwelleth  on 

My  own,  my  mortal  hurt. 

If  once  the  brave  deceives  the  fair, 

Must  time  still  fly  between 
The  household  of  an  orphaned  heir, 

Of  love  and  love's  demesne  ? 

Forgive  me,  and  the  blessed  deed 

Recorded  in  thy  heart 
Will  level  time  and  intercede 

For  that  which  lacketh  art. 

The  sins  of  reason  and  of  rhyme 

Are  not  to  me  less  base 
Than  that  which  thou  dost  hold  a  crime, 

And  I  would  not  efface. 

Consider  how  and  where  and  when 

I  sinned  at  beauty's  altar; 
Consider,  Oh,  consider!  then 

I  know  thou  wilt  not  falter. 

Forgiveness  is  a  holy  charm, 
Than  truth,  is  nothing  fairer. 

Too  late?  'tis  ne'er  too  late  for  balm, 
And  love's  a  known  despairer. 

The  heavens,  sweet,  are  listening, 
With  hopeful  eyes  and  damp; 

The  moon  that  late  was  glistening 
Turns  low  its  ruddy  lamp. 


THE  FISHERMAN'S  I.AST  FAKEWEU,.  41 

One  word,  and  nature  wakes  again, 

One  word  of  instant  breath; 
One  word,  one  word,  or  its  refrain, 

One  word,  one  word,  or — death. 


THE  FISHERMAN'S  LAST  FAREWELL- 

Lo!  a  storm  is  on  the  sea, 

Lammermoor; 
Meaning  troubled  hours  for  thee, 

Lammermoor; 
But  no  longer  vigils  keep, 
Nurse  thy  gentle  soul  to  sleep, 
And  to-morrow  thou  may'st  weep, 

Lammermoor. 

Not  a  star  is  in  the  sky, 

Lammermoor; 
Not  a  beacon-light  is  nigh, 

Lammermoor; 

Life's  long  cherished  hopes  have  fled, 
And  my  future's  with  the  tfead, 
And  my  grave  the  ocean-bed, 

Lammermoor. 

Helpless  drifts  my  little  boat, 

Lammermoor; 
Striving  hard  to  keep  afloat, 

Lammermoor; 

Yet  the  loudly  flapping  sail 
Cannot  in  the  end  prevail, 
But  I'll  die  and  never  quail, 

Lammermoor. 


ODE  TO  DISAPPOINTMENT. 

Unpitying  wight !  thy  handiwork  is  here  ! 
What  inward  is,  is  outward  in  its  action, 

Outward  and  upward,  nothing  daunting  it — 
From  which  arises  a  distempered  fear 
Bordering  on  the  realms  of  distraction; 

Merging  to  moods  that  are  the  least  unfit, 
When  all  the  intense  agony  is  o'er, 
And  hope's  bright  star  is  dimmed  forevermore. 
If  beauty  worships  Endymion's  ghost, 
Yet  night  is  but  the  shaded  map  of  day 
And  cannot  always  last,  it  must  away, 
Then,  Disappointment,  thou  art  wretched  most. 


Aye!  cold  life-giver,  circumstantial  child, 

'Twere  better  thou  wert  orphaned  and  in  hell, 
For  Time's  indifference  differs  most  in  thee. 
Heedful  too  late,  regardless,  wild, 

But  nowise  vague,  yet — heavy  truth  to  tell — 
Thou  art  the  sword  in  many  a  touchy  me. 
Indeed  thou  art  not  circumscribed  at  all; 
Thy  range  is  not  of  men  nor  wisdom  small; 
Nor  any  too  sagacious  is  thy  creed. 

If  thou  wouldst  in  thy  triumph  only  die, 
Oh,  that  were  something  !  but  thy  partial  eye 
Can  see  no  wound  till  lulling  life  is  freed. 


42 


DDK   TO   DISAPPOINTMENT.  43 


Death  is  thy  victory  !  nathless  thy  gain 
Is  small  enough  and  thou  art  ill  repaid; 

Anticipation  of  reputed  worth, 
Itself  repudiated  and  made  plain, 

Is  but  a  poor  inheritance.     Thus  weighed, 

Behold  thee,  a  degenerate  of  earth! 
An  only  ruler  of  the  blind  that  see, 
The  deaf  that  hear,  the  dumb  that  speak  through  thee. 
Then  wherefore  art  thou  vain?     Then  wherefore  proud  ? 
True,  thou  wert  never  so!  true,  to  be  sure — 
Thou  couldst  not  be  and  ever  thus  endure, 
For  pride  dies  young  and  thou  art  still  uncowed. 


Imagination,  too,  is  of  thy  breed, 

And  thou  art  sponsor  for  it  to  the  end, 

For  well  thou  knowest  'tis  no  foe  of  thine; 
For  well  thou  knowest  where  it  sows  its  seed, 
Thyself  doth  ever  faithfully  attend, 

Casting  thy  muck  along  the  furrowed  line; 
Nor  canst  thou  be  called  faithless  to  thy  trust, 
Although  thou  art  to  honest  faith  unjust, 
Who  hath  not  injured  thee  in  all  her  days, 
Yet  knew  thee  only  to  behold  thee  foul. 
If  virtue  dwelleth  'neath  a  friar's  cowl 
Then  thou  art  all  of  this  in  many  ways. 


THROCKMORTON. 

Believe  ine,  stranger,  if  ever  lover 

Or  constant  rover  through  flowery  meads, 

A  spirit  dwells  in  Throckmorton's  valleys 
And  winding  alleys  of  balmy  reeds. 

A  spirit  laden  with  faithful  sorrows, 

That  shames  the  morrow's  indulgent  ray; 

Whereas  the  meadows  bespeak  a  season 
When  hearts  of  reason  are  ever  gay. 

But  do  not  stay  it,  or  rudely  linger 
To  lay  a  finger  upon  its  shroud  ; 

For  'tis  a  maiden  whose  soul's  in  heaven, 
Whose  love  was  given,  but  ne'er  allowed. 

Respect  her  mission,  for  she  is  holy 

And  wanders  solely  with  steadfast  thought; 

She  seeks  a  lover  who  may  remember 
A  dead  December  was  illy  bought. 

She  seeks  a  sailor  who  loved  the  ocean 
With  that  devotion  which  feared  no  ill; 

And  this  betokened  an  angry  sire, 

Whose  aim  was  higher  and  higher  still. 

He  pined  and  fretted  that  his  fair  jewel 
Could  be  so  cruel  to  cross  his  mind; 

And  oft  he  pleaded,  she  never  trembled, 
Nor  aught  dissembled,  for  she  was  blind. 

Her  one  bright  loadstar,  he  did  discover, 
Was  her  bold  lover  and  nothing  more. 

If  he  reproved  her,  he  ne'er  consented, 
Nor  late  repented  and  all  was  o'er. 

44 


THROCKMORTON.  45 

Remorse  hath  killed  her,  and  earth,  her  mother, 

In  lieu  of  other  reclaimed  its  own, 
And  soon  consigned  her  in  snowy  vestments 

Where  love's  assessments  might  ne'er  be  known. 

Some  seven  summers  hath  passed  and  missed  her 
Where  oft  they  kissed  her  in  woodland  dells; 

Where  oft  she  loitered  in  brakes  and  brambles 
And  lover's  rambles,  sighing  "farewells." 

But  now  her  spirit,  divine  and  deathless, 

All  pale  and  breathless  and  ill  at  ease, 
Is  nightly  haunting  the  lonesome  passes 

And  dank  morasses  and  mossy  leas. 

She  ofttimes  pauses,  where  one  reposes, 

Beneath  the  roses,  blood-red  in  hue; 
An  humble  headstone  blotched,  blurred  and  broken, 

Mayhap  hath  spoken,  but  nothing  new. 

Nathless  her  features  express  a  measure 

Of  earthly  pleasure,  of  human  grace; 
For  lo  !  her  idol,  no  more  a  rover 

Or  gentle  lover,  hath  run  his  race. 

Scarred  Tamalpais,  black-browed  and  hoary, 

May  know  his  story  and  how  he  died, 
But  never  whispers  to  her  who  nightljr 

Wrongly  or  rightly  doth  near  abide. 

Not  out  of  reason,  tho'  sins  forgiven, 

She  counts  in  heaven  a  world  of  tears; 
E'er^death  hath  claimed  her  she  did  inherit 

This  restless  spirit  and  many  fears. 


LAKE  MERRITT. 

Upon  thy  banks  my  fancy  roves 

To  all  those  sweet  embroidered  groves 

Of  well  remembered  story; 
And  often  there  I  lay  me  down 
In  Autumn,  when  the  leaves  are  brown, 

And  dream  of  phantom  glory. 

'Twas  thou,  blest  talisman  of  youth, 
Inspired  what  words  of  beauty's  truth 

That  with  me  are  united; 
And  toned  the  lone,  the  love-sick  days 
Which  first  gave  substance  to  the  lays 

That  worldly  wisdom  blighted. 

Yon  full-blown  sails  that  skim  the  wave, 
And  more  intrepidly  doth  brave 

The  distant  estuary, 
May  yield  to  others  keen  delight, 
But  give  me  shelter  in  thy  sight 

With  hearts  that  never  vary. 

These  shores  that  line  thee,  marvelous  lake, 
Doth  something  of  thyself  partake — 

Thy  whole-souled  animation — 
From  low  St.  Mary's  convent  walls 
To  where  the  jutting  roadway  falls 

By  easy,  slow  gradation. 

Nor  I  alone  doth  on  thee  gaze 
With  dreamy  eye  and  sense  ablaze, 

Beyond  rhyme's  worthy  mention, 
For  oft  I've  seen  thy  bordering  glade 
Protect  the  twice-protected  maid 

From  niggard  apprehension. 

46 


LAKE  MKRRITT.  47 

And  something  on  thy  surface  said, 
'Twas  e'er  thy  native  beauty  led 

Earth's  sympathetic  daughters 
To  pause  beneath  yon  spreading  oaks, 
And  vow  love's  sweet  and  tender  yokes, 

Still  gazing  on  thy  waters. 

Full  many  a  Sabbath  hour  I  played 
The  truant  from  the  greater  shade 

Of  some  stern-visaged  preacher 
To  idly  float  upon  thy  breast, 
Whilst  my  rapt  spirit  would  attest 

Thou  wert  the  better  teacher; 

For  in  thy  shallow  marge  I  viewed 
The  folly  of  ingratitude, 

The  baseness  of  dissembling; 
And  oft  beheld  with  heart-still  joy, 
A  bold,  a  truly  wilful  boy, 

At  his  reflection  trembling. 

Nor  was  this  least  of  what  I  learnt, 
But  so  deep  was  its  wisdom  burnt, 

In  those  bright  hours  of  leisure, 
That  still  I  feel  its  inward  trend 
Trace  and  retrace  to  some  dark  end 

The  years  it  doth  out-measure. 

A  busy  life  since  intervened 

To  part  the  youth  that  from  thee  weaned, 

A  spiritual  reason; 

Though  still  reserved  within  his  heart 
Dwelleth  thy  pictured  counterpart 

Through  change,  and  stress,  and  season. 


48  MAY   WAS   A   MONTH   OF   VARIED   HUE. 

Live  on  then,  peaceful  lake,  fore'er, 
Nor  let  one  sullen  churl  declare 

Thy  charms  grow  cold  and  colder; 
Belie  not  this  lone  feeble  bard, 
Who  loved  thee  with  no  small  regard 

And  in  that  love  grew  bolder. 


MAY  WAS  A  MONTH  OF  VARIED  HUE- 

May  was  a  month  of  varied  hue, 
The  heart  tempting  the  eye  to  view 

What  cold  December  misses. 
May  was — but  is  not  any  more — 
A  faithful  friend,  and  all  iny  lore 

Was  smiles  and  sighs  and  kisses. 

Her  genial  rays  were  gently  sweet; 
Her  gladsome  days  too  short  to  meet 

The  soul's  wish  that  grew  dearer. 
Yet  truth,  full-fledged,  doth  declare 
The  present  May  is  just  as  fair, 

And  to  perfection  nearer. 

Then  tell  me,  weak  and  fluttering  mind, 
Why  are  you  thus  to  May  unkind? 

Why  are  you  thus  untruthful? 
What  Lizzie  said,  thyself  shoulds't  say, 
That  never  in  the  month  of  May 

Ought  any  heart  grow  ruthful. 


MAY   WAS   A  MONTH   OF  VARIED   HUB.  49 

O  Lizzie  !  wert  thou  living  still, 

These  thoughts  that  deaden  my  weak  will 

Would  meet  a  bold  dissenter; 
Thy  death  it  was  that  firstly  called 
Their  substance  forth,  and  later  palled 

A  somewhat  vague  repenter. 

Between  the  cold  and  glittering  stars 
Mine  eyes  behold  th'  celestial  bars 

That  guard  the  gates  of  heaven. 
Yet,  tell  me  Fate,  should  I,  too,  die, 
Will  Lizzie  know?     Will  she  be  nigh? 

Will  soul  meet  soul  forgiven? 

Thou  glorious  Light  of  Gethsemane! 
'Tis  holy  custom  to  maintain 

That  Thou  wert  faulty  never; 
And  such  a  light  was  Lizzie's  love, 
That  my  soul  centers  it  above 

Forever  and  forever. 

O  earth's  emoluments!     O  fame! 
What  can  ye  add  unto  her  name 

Which  she  doth  not  inherit? 
What  can  ye  give  or  take  away 
Within  this  fleeting  month  of  May 

To  match  her  radiant  spirit  ? 


LONDON  BRIDGE  13  FALLING  DOWN. 

I  ventured  from  the  beaten  path 
Where  alien  footsteps  seldom  tread; 

And  kindred  man  much  usage  hath 
The  weary  hours  to  toil  for  bread. 

Not  here,  I  mused,  doth  fancy  nest; 

Too  somber  these  decaying  walls 
For  her  abidance  :  here  folks  rest 

When  laughter  rings  through  marble  halls. 

I  measured  slow  the  wooden  walk 
That  bordered  on  a  narrow  lane, 

And  heard  the  sound  of  lowly  talk 
Within  the  sound  of  this  refrain: 

"London  bridge  is  falling  down, 
Falling  down,  falling  down; 
London  bridge  is  falling  down, 
My fair lady." 

My  course  was  soon  abruptly  blocked 
By  a  cute,  little  circling  throng 

Of  happy  children,  gingham-frocked, 
Singing  that  quaint,  prophetic  song. 

I  calmly,  though  intently,  gazed 

Upon  their  interesting  play, 
At  which  they  paused,  and  seemed  amazed, 

But  soon  again  resumed  their  lay: 

"  London  bridge  is  falling  down, 
Falling  down,  falling  down; 
London  bridge  is  falling  down, 
My fair Lady." 

50 


LONDON   BRIDGK   IS   FALLING   DOWN.  51 

One  pretty  miss  sat  by,  alone, 

The  victim  of  some  sad  mistake; 
And  made  betimes  a  tearful  moan, 

As  if  her  little  heart  would  break. 

I  questioned  her  and  said:   "  My  child, 
Why  sit  you  here,  and  crying,  too  ?  " 

She  wiped  her  eyes  and  blandly  smiled, 
Half-hesitating  what  to  do. 

Again  repeating  my  remark, 

She  answered  in  a  bashful  way: 
"  My  father  went  to  prison,  sir; 

And  those  girls  never  let  me  play. ' ' 

With  that  she  wept  and  wept  aloud, 

But  kindness  seemed  to  soothe  her  pain; 

She  suffered  for  the  dreadful  cloud, 
Although  it  was  the  father's  stain. 

"  There,  little  girl,"  I  said,  "  don't  cry, 
You  shall  have  candy;  dry  your  tears." 

Her  hand  I  took,  and  we  passed  by, 
Amidst  the  others'  deafening  jeers. 

'Tis  thus,  the  parents'  sins  descend 

Upon  the  inoffensive  child — 
O  heaven,  spare  a  reckless  end, 

To  one  thus  wrongfully  exiled. 

Not  only  doth  distinctions  dwell 

Among  the  higher  walks  of  life; 
The  smallest  babe  may  live  to  tell 

Of  discord  sprung  from  simple  strife. 


52  SONG. 

That  journey  then,  shall  I  repent? 

Nay  !  something  to  the  hour  I  owe; 
The  child,  the  fate  she  underwent, 

Those  words  oft  through  my  mind  yet  flow. 

What  they  portend,  I  may  not  tell; 

Time  works  its  wonders  many  ways ! 
Yet  one] lone  voice  I  cannot  quell, 

Forever  and  anon  it  says: 

"  London  bridge  is  falling  down, 
Falling  down,  falling  down; 
London  bridge  is  falling  down, 
My fair lady." 


SONG. 

Sigh  not,  fair  maid  !     Oh,  sigh  not  so  ! 

'Twill  ne'er  relieve  thy  inmost  pain; 
Thy  trusting  heart  can  never  know 

Sweet  joy  again,  sweet  joy  again. 
Life's  hopes,  ere  Love  a  truant  turned, 

Are  blasted  now  and  borne  away; 
Thejheart  wherein  its  fervor  burned 

Must  turn  to  clay,  must  turn  to  clay. 


FERDINAND  TO  MEDORA.* 

I. 

Thy  rolling  orbs  I  gazed  upon  but  once — 
Once  fairly  in  the  dim,  unnatural  past; 
Yet  it  sufficed,  and  brought  forth  quick  response 

Of  love,  more  bountiful  than  any  blast 
From  the  foul  mouth  of  Beelzebub.     Upon 
Thy  bosom  I  could  lay  my  head  for  aye 
In  peaceful  slumber.     Oh  !  what  holy  Don 
Could  fain  do  else  or  any  charm  gainsay. 
I  might  outlive  Methusaleh  of  old, 

If  thou  wouldst  smile  on  me  one  even  hour 
With  that  felicity  which  doth  unfold 

More  passion  than  which  any  regal  dower 
Is  merest  garbage,  sickening  to  behold, 

And  like  the  scourge  which  doth  fair  earth  deflower. 

II. 

God  made  thee  for  a  purpose,  and  I  own 

'Twas  some  such  mission  as  the  birds  confide 
To  ears  acute,  whose  notes  are  oft  implied 
As  voices  from  the  Maker's  august  throne. 
No  beauty  can  I  gage  thee  to;  no  zone 

Can  from  its  earth  such  nourishment  provide 
To  yield  its  children  that  which  is  denied 
By  lassitude  and  granted  thee  alone. 

O  thou,  clay's  choicest  clay!  eternal  spring! 
Beacon  of  sanctity!  bright  star  of  man! 

Where'er  thou  treadest,  chaos  stalks  behind, 
Making  life's  wisdom  seem  a  poisoned  sting, 
The  sage's  years  a  little  eclipsed  span, 
And  this  vast  universe  a  thing  divined. 

*  The  following  sonnets  are  supposed  to  have  been  written  by  a  man  out  of 
sympathy  with  his  time  and  the  qualities  of  his  fellow-man.  Presumably,  one  who 
held  honor  to  be  no  sin;  yet  it  cannot  be  denied  that  he  sometimes  exhausts  his  own 
patience  and  occasionally  takes  a  fling  at  the  "  eternal  verities."  But  whether  this 
was  the  intent  of  his  desire,  or  the  unconsciousness  of  cynicism,  it  matters  little. 
Few  can  master  the  intricacies  of  love,  much  less  define  its  vagaries,  seeing  it  is  no 
child  of  judgment. 


54  FKRDINAND   TO    MEDORA, 


III. 

Alas!     I  envy  the  absorbent  sun 

That  lights  thy  chamber  in  the  early  morn, 
And  drinks  thy  pregnant  beauty  in  as  one, 

Intoxicated  by  a  drug  forsworn. 
I  envy  not  the  dawn  which  loves  my  love, 

I  only  envy  that  which,  lost  to  me, 
May  something  richer  to  the  bearer  prove, 
And  leave  me  helpless  with  mad  jealousy. 

If  'twere  some  mortal  wight  I  fain  would  vow 

An  everlasting  hatred  to  the  same; 
And  stamp  malignity  upon  his  brow, 
So  all   the  world  would  know  him  "thief"   by 

name. 

For  v/ho  so  robs  me  profits  wrongful  gain, 
And  leaves  me  an  insolvent's  direful  stain. 


IV. 

Betimes  I  linger  on  thy  happy  words 

That  flow  like  honey  from  thy  servant  tongue. 
Oh  !  they  are  precious  omens  like  the  birds 

That  starred  the  heavens  when  great  poets  sung; 
Something  of  light  and  shadow  doth  they  leave, 

Something  which  mine  own  confidence  calls  love. 
Yet,  tell  me  not  that  they  in  this  deceive, 
Or  that  my  fancy  will  but  fancy  prove. 
May  nothing  surfeit  me  to  mine  own  ill, 

Except  that  which  love  can  alone  sustain, 
By  the  mere  action  of  thy  present  will, 

Whose  everything  is  light  to  this  refrain; 
For  thou  canst  shame  to  death  my  weaker  years, 
And  their  fine  phantasy  of  boding  fears. 


FERDINAND   TO   MKDORA.  55 

V. 

The  thought  was  tender  when  the  night  was  long, 

That  when  the  morrow  broke  I  would  unfold 
To  thy  half-clos'ed  ears  a  plaintive  song, 

Sung  oft  these  thousand  years  by  knights  of  old. 
No  fear  or  thought  of  fear  dwelt  in  my  heart — 

Nothing  but  pleasant  memories — when  day, 
All  spank  and  rosy,  drew  its  lids  apart, 

And  blushed  to  find  me  on  the  open  way. 

0  day  !  blot  out  thy  cold  transparencies  ! 

O  night !  heart's  revenue  to  thee  I  yield  ! 
Friend  of  desire  and  keeper  of  the  keys 

Of  promise,  day  hath  shamefully  concealed. 

1  must  have  sunshine,  yet  day  be  my  night, 

Night  day,  sun  moon,  mcon  sun,  and  darkness  light. 


VI. 

Men  taught  me  knowledge,  but  I  learnt  it  not. 

You  taught  me  love  and  I  learned  wisdom,  too. 

Behold  the  paradox  !     This  residue 
Of  love  is  wisdom's  heritage:  begot 
From  judgment's  loins  by  strategy  and  plot. 

Therefore  whatever  sequences  ensue, 

I  am  the  debtor,  for  I  owe  to  you 
More  than  dependent  years  can  e'er  outblot. 

My  little  virtue  is  out-virtued  twice, 
And  fretting  days  are  oft  subordinate 

To  my  mind's  will;  but  by  no  sacrifice 

Of  love's  own  divertisements,  which  create 

A  gradual  evolution  in  my  soul, 

Half-halving  half,  yet  one  continuous  whole. 


56  FERDINAND   TO   MEDORA. 


VII. 

The  lights  of  seven  centuries  grow  pale, 

When  beauty's  substance  'fore  me  doth  arise; 
And  all  my  years  seem  voiceless;  and  I  fail 

For  words  to  spread  the  transports  of  mine  eyes. 
Though  these  dead  gods  of  my  idolatry, 

Give  voice  to  wisdom  and  sweet  tunes  to  thought; 
It  falls  on  stony  ears.     O  ecstasy! 

O  love  !  thy  joys — how  dearly  are  they  bought. 
Yet  he  is  rich  who  can  forget  the  cares 

Which  wisdom  gives:  for  beauty's  self  inspires 
A  keener  love  than  knowledge  ever  shares — 

A  sweeter  truth,  Medora,  than  the  fires 
Of  all  the  masters.     Be  it  ever  so  ! 
They  first  must  love  who  would  true  wisdom  know. 


VIII. 
If  I  grow  riotous  with  early  love, 

And  sooner  languish  in  the  world's  decay, 
Thyself  art  ever  sweetening  some  fair  grove, 
Whose  greater  greatness  never  fades  away. 
Not  an  enchantress  would  I  argue  thee, 
Nor  an  immortal  with  a  sibyl's  voice; 
Though  thy  bright  soul  is  purer  than  the  sea, 
Yet  thou  art  still  of  earth;  in  that  rejoice. 

Love  blinds  the  eye  and  lends  an  angel's  grace, 

To  simple  maidens  void  of  beauty's  art. 
But  thou  dost  need  no  love  to  give  thee  place, 

Still  it  were  meet,  love  should  control  thy  heart. 
Now  vow  to  press  me  further  to  this  point, 
And  I  will  show  thee  great  worlds  out  of  joint. 


FERDINAND   TO   MEDORA.  57 


IX. 

To  paint  the  virtues  of  a  given  soul, 

Whose  radiance  glows  like  the  first  touch  of  day, 
Is  far  beyond  rny  pow'r.     Mine  is  a  role 

Wholly  removed  from  fancy  gently  gay. 
Hence,  failure  may  be  written  on  my  brow, 

And  all  the  fury  of  a  South-sea  storm 
May  rage  within  me,  but  I  cannot  now, 
Nor  any  time,  such  offices  perform. 

Thou  fain  would  earless  be  to  this  discourse, 

I^est  it  should  lend  thee  an  assuming  air; 
Yet  truth  will  out,  and  with  it  the  remorse, 
That  cannot  one  without  the  other  share. 
'Twere  folly  to  be  wise,  if  'twere  ordained 
That  wit  with  beauty  unholy  war  maintained. 


X. 

Thy  spiritual  self  is  wed  with  mine, 

Indifferent  to  thy  heart's  material  strains, 
Nor  with  what  tone  its  hollow  voice  complains. 
In  close  embrace,  oft  hath  I  lain  supine, 
Sipping  thy  spirit  love — O  love  divine  ! — 
From  melliflous  lips,  whose  touch  enchains, 
lyike  Virtue's  loadstar.     In  such  holy  fanes 
My  own  soul's  unity  is  lost  in  thine. 
The  very  essences  of  mundane  joy 

Are  dregs  to  this  pure  wine  of  revery — 
This  etherealism.     Canst  thou  deny 
That  thy  love's  spirit  is  mine  to  employ, 
In  whatsoever  fashion  I  may  deem — 
Since  things  are  what  they  are,  not  what  they  seem  ? 


58  FERDINAND   TO   MKDORA. 


XI. 

Upon  the  fading  vision  of  each  day 

With  sweet  excess  of  sadness  I  do  mourn, 
When  thou,  fair  soul,  doth  to  thy  kindred  stray, 

Making  dear  hardships  for  a  soul  doubt-torn. 
Not  to  the  eye  perceptible  the  pain; 

Not  to  the  ear  perceptible  the  sound; 
Yet  instinct  and  its  subtle  sense  makes  plain, 
Prophetic  fear  of  an  approaching  wound. 
Oh,  may  the  thought  be  brother  to  the  fear, 

As  illegitimate,  as  fatherless, 
And  far  less  conscientious,  far  less  dear. 

But  wishing  cannot  drown  or  kill  distress: 
For  on  a  hill,  where  twenty  spruce-trees  grow, 
Some  immemorial  spring  abides  below. 


XII. 

Test  not  the  merit  of  my  love  by  day, 
Nor  judge  me  by  man's  dull  prosaic  wit: 
None  but  thyself  hath  ever  fashioned  it, 
None,  e'en  thyself,  can  doom  it  to  decay. 
The  narrow  rut  of  life  hath  lost  its  sway, 
And  to  the  future  I  shall  oft  commit 
What  vestiges  of  love  as  best  seem  fit 
To  lend  effulgence  to  imperfect  clay. 
My  life  in  resignation  is  confined, 

lyike  drooping  lilies  where  no  bud  reposes, 

And  these  rehearsals  fitting  food  for  thought, 
Time's  interstices  thereby  are  inclined 
As  the  apprentice  to  what  God  discloses, 
Showing  simplicity  in  what  was  sought. 


FERDINAND   TO   M3DORA.  59 


XIII. 

Rather  seek  calmer  judgment  In  the  night, 

When  glorious  stars  add  luster  to  the  scene; 
And  their  tranquillity  sheds  softer  light 
O'er  thy  soul's  pathway:  then  convene 
Whatever  witnesses  may  come  between 
The  error  and  the  virtue  of  my  right. 
And  let  thy  senses  resolutely  glean 
In  one  small  moment  what  the  years  recite. 
Deal  gently  with  my  faults,  for  they  are  much, 
And  weigh  more  heavily  upon  my  mind, 

Than  that  great  pressure  of  the  keener  air, 
Round  some  high  altitude.     And  pray  give  touch 
To  what  I  mean  to  be,  and  be  as  blind 
To  what  I  am,  as  best  may  speak  thee  fair. 


XIV. 
Thy  servants  prosper  nobly  at  thy  will, 

Sharing  a  richer  heritage  than  I; 
They  see  thee  daily,  see  thee  to  their  fill, 

Whilst  to  myself  that  vantage  you  deny. 
Thy  lowest  minion  hath  me  on  the  hip, 
Being  a  very  spoilsman  of  that  touch, 
Which  doth  all  nature  change,  at  one  fell  slip, 
And  thus,  and  thus  my  love  limps  on  a  crutch. 
Bach  moment  moves  me  further  from  my  stand, 

And  crowds  me  close  and  closer  to  the  wall; 
Kach  new  despair  is  like  a  swelling  gland 

That  soon  must  burst  and  bring  an  end  to  all. 
Whatever  moveth  hearts,  I  know  it  not; 
But  this  I  know:  my  love  is  quite  forgot. 


60  FERDINAND   TO   MEDORA. 


XV. 

Wert  thou  by  nature  preordained  to  grant 

Reprisals  to  the  scriveners  of  time, 
Oh!  how  the  very  tongues  oilmen  would  pant, 

Singing  thy  orisons  in  ev'ry  clime. 
There  is  more  subject-matter  in  thine  eyes, 
Whose  concentrated  wealth  is  vaster  far 
Than  all  the  pure,  beseeming  gold  that  lies 
In  Sirius,  the  great,  the  mighty  star. 

Give  then  the  promise  which  those  eyes  withhold, 

That  the  fulfilment  may  seem  nothing  strange. 
Writing  (fair  oracle)  is  purer  gold, 

Than  speech,  which  may  by  situation  change; 
Leaving  a  void  unbridged,  a  noxious  fear, 
A  love  unwholesome,  or  a  barren  year. 


XVI. 
Why  comest  not  the  question  to  thy  mind 

That  needs  must  seek  an  answer  at  its  birth  ? 
Am  I  vainglorious,  or  thou  unkind, 

To  read  my  humor  as  a  cause  for  mirth? 
Were  my  inquiry  to  the  haughty  breed, 

These  hopes  were  surely  barren  of  returns; 
And  to  them  all  I  would  their  all  concede, 
But  this  from  thee  most  inhumanely  burns. 
Oh,  could  I  have  foreseen  what  now  is  plain, 

This  busy  tongue  of  mine  were  long  since  stilled 
In  golden  silence.     This  then  to  my  gain: 

I  have  been  civil  when  my  passion  willed 
A  fiery  eloquence.     But  it  was  fate 
That  I,  alas,  should  love  a  lass  too  late. 


FERDINAND   TO   MEDORA.  61 

XVII. 

Though  for  itself  truth  needs  no  advocate, 

Nor  man's  indorsement  for  its  current  note. 
Yet  who  shall  say  what's  truth  ?     And  who  shall  state 

This  man  or  that  learned  not  his  truth  by  rote 
And  therefore  is  a  weakling  'fore  the  fact  ? 
Since,  by  comparison,  he'll  truth  declare, 
While  truth  itself  is  in  itself  intact, 

And  needs  must  stand  or  fall  by  its  own  wear. 
Yet  this  is  truth:  when  I  say  truth  is  love, 

That's  truth's  full  measurement  and  nothing  less; 
And  thou,  sweet  truth,  who  art  the  soul  thereof, 
(L,ove  being  truth,  truth  love)  why,  I  profess, 
What's  in  the  soul  of  ev'ry  eye  to  see: 
Hence,  by  this  sign  let  all  truth  judged  be. 


XVIII. 

Gilding  report  and  making  it  seem  sweet 
To  Time's  advantage  and  my  lady's  ear 
Will  find  in  me  no  steward,  for  I  fear 

L,ove's  introspection  may  be  incomplete, 

And  thereby  first-born  promises  defeat. 
Mayhap  some  lamer  makeshift  I  hold  dear 
With  less  of  reason  than  doth  here  appear; 

If  so,  denial  cannot  say,  'tis  meet. 

While  day  and  night  are  kin  to  one  another, 
They  are  not  less  at  variance  for  the  same; 
Both  have  designs;  each  one  upon  the  other, 
And  reason  nothing,  being  lost  to  shame. 
Therefore  report,  which  I  hath  oft  foresworn 
By  silence,  may  be  otherwise  than  scorn. 


62  FERDINAND   TO   MEDORA. 


XIX. 
To  blush  were  to  admit  unreasoned  facts, 

And  stand  self-wilted  in  the  eyes  of  men, 
To  whom  I'll  not  confess  my  secret  acts, 

Since  love's  true  parts  seem  ill  within  their  ken; 
But  rather  passion,  nameth  after  love, 

Bearing  a  foul  injustice  in  the  name. 
Therefore,  the  grace  of  Providence  above, 
And  thy  apology  I  humbly  claim. 

Yet,  ask  me  not  cold,  borrowed  looks  to  wear, 
When  I  must  wear  them  with  a  low  conceit, 
Against  all  virtue.     Love,  as  thou  art  fair, 

As  thou  art  noble,  honorable,  sweet, 
I  swear  I'll  not  deny,  if  I'm  accused, 
That  I  was  half  a  hundred  times  refused  ! 


XX. 

The  month,  the  day,  the  hour,  and  the  event, 

Hath  chorused  happily  this  endless  song 
And  stereotyped  its  curious  argument 

By  persuasion  and  a  living  wrong. 
If  Poverty  will  of  its  own  complain, 

Then  I,  like  usurers,  defend  my  trade; 
Though  this  may  gather  little  to  my  gain, 
Yet  I  of  little,  little  am  afraid. 

In  this  acknowledgment  you  nothing  lose, 

Since  nothing  is  acknowledged  by  thy  voice; 
And  whatsoever  mood  thou  mayest  choose, 

By  me  is  comprehended  virtue's  choice. 
Thus  in  this  paradoxal  world  I  stand, 
An  Atlas  with  a  crutch  in  either  hand. 


FERDINAND   TO   MEDORA.  63 


XXI. 

Who  Is  this  upstart  that  doth  soil  thy  name 

By  offering  to  the  public  eye  his  notes  ? 
His  treachery  may  warrant  him  a  fame 

Of  precious  nothings,  for  on  love  he  dotes; 
And  love,  these  lamentations  can  attest, 

Is  a  too-feeble  borrower  of  wit. 
But  mark  his  stubbornness;  what  he  confessed 

Must  wrench  a  heart  that's  proud  there's  pride  in  it. 
Yea  !  do  him  justice.     He  loves  beauty  first, 

And  where  its  creed  is  best  exemplified 
He  pays  high  court.     Oh,  what  a  noble  thirst ! 

If  he  were  silent  long  he  must  of  died. 
Indeed,  Time  wrongs  him,  for  he  meant  no  ill, 
And  honored  patience  with  a  right  good  will. 


XXII. 

O  sweet  felicity  !     O  gentle  song  ! 

Why  art  thou  so  reticent  ?     Why  so  strange  ? 
lyike  some  coy  maiden  who  hath  loved  full  long 

And  wed  desire  marveled  at  her  change. 
So  marvel  I,  Medora,  at  the  range 

L,ove  plays  its  tunes  in;  so  have  I  oft  wept 
Full  many  hours  in  life's  vacuous  grange, 

Till  in  the  arms  of  Morpheus  I  slept, 
And  sleeping  dreamt  and  dreaming  dreamt  in  vain — 

Thou  art  my  one  religion  and  the  priest 

Of  ev'ry  hope  that  inwardly  doth  feast 
With  love,  and  love  will  ever  thus  remain 

To  rouse  a  smoldering  passion  to  a  fire 

That  burns  beyond  conception  and  desire. 


64  FERDINAND   TO   MEDORA. 

XXIII. 

I  may  not  live  to  prosecute  my  bent, 

Making  sweet  sounds  and  discords  with  one  breath 
For  if  thy  heart  refuse  thy  lips  consent, 

My  speech  is  ended:  silence  then  and  death. 
This  cumbersome  existence  will  not  fear 

The  all  too-dreaded  specter  nor  his  train, 
But  love  more  patiently  the  new-born  year, 
That  claims  my  own  denouement  to  thy  gain. 
Distinctions,  nor  the  partial  bonds  of  hope, 

Are  not  less  gaged  by  any  of  thy  clan. 
Indeed,  I  would  more  willingly  elope 

With  all  thy  wishes,  if  they  were  of  man, 
Than  here  remain  to  color  with  remorse, 
That  part  of  thee  which  love  cannot  indorse. 


XXIV. 
Build  me  no  cenotaph  when  nry  last  breath 

Makes  but  a  faint  impression  on  the  glass! 
What  this  small  life  hath  oft  encountereth 

Is  monument  enough:  so  let  it  pass. 
If  thou  alone  shouldst  fittingly  survive 

In  thy  heart's  heart  love's  faithful  love  confide — 
My  little  all — keep  only  that  alive, 

And  it  shall  bloom  like  that  which  never  died. 
'Twill  vie  in  perfect  beauty  with  the  rose, 

That  patiently  awaits  the  dewy  morn. 
Not  as  the  quivering  stream  that  onward  flows 

To  the  uncertain  sea;  not  as  the  thorn 
That  secret  lurks  in  summer's  fairest  flower 
And  consecrates  with  blood  its  nuptial  hour. 


FERDINAND   TO   MEDORA.  65 


XXV. 

This  simple  song  ne'er  had  a  preface  to  it, 

And  by  these  signs  'twill  never  have  an  end; 
Nor  I,  nor  any  part  of  me  will  rue  it, 

What  loves  designs  I  surely  will  commend. 
However,  may  my  judgment  err  in  singing, 

The  subject  is  infallible,  'tis  plain; 
My  fault  with  me  will  die,  while  thou  art  bringing 
To  ages  love,  therein  will  lie  the  gain. 
Therefore,  no  truth's  apology  I  owe, 

To  life,  love,  immortality  or  death; 
Therefore,  I  will  not  anything  bestow, 

Excepting  that  which  thou  hast  given  breath. 
These  simples  even  heaven  will  respect, 
For  God  is  love's  unerring  architect. 


XXVI. 

Judge  me  not  by  my  looks  !     Believe  me,  dear, 
My  pen  is  weak-kneed  to  the  thoughts  that  stray 
Their  everlasting  sanguinary  way 
Throughout  my  throbbing  brain.     I  dread  with  fear 
The  spectacle  of  those  that  volunteer 

To  yield  me  small  advantage,  yet  betray 
Whatever  confidence  I  might  display 
By  any  deed  acknowledged  in  the  clear. 
Could  I  half  signify  what  in  thee  lies, 

Or  paint  the  fringes  of  thy  glorious  lights 
With  truth's  own  pencil — these,  my  soulfelt  sighs, 

Could  not  attest  the  joy  born  in  such  rites. 
Thou,  love,  may'st  even  shut  thy  sensate  eyes, 
But  think  not  man  can  e'er  attain  those  heights. 


FERDINAND  TO  MEDORA. 

XXVII. 

Religiously  I  scan  those  lesser  stars 

That  burn  their  silent  watchfires  in  the  sky, 
In  bold  defiance  to  the  warlike  Mars, 

Whose  malice  is  all  patent  to  the  eye. 
In  them  I  see  the  likeness  of  my  love, 

Willing  to  grant,  but  fearing  aught  to  give; 
Courting  forbearance  for  the  sake  thereof, 
When  that  sweet  excellence  in  her  doth  live. 
So  with  this  very  grace  that  fears  dispraise 

Is  measured  out  to  me  a  fickle  faith 
That  dies  bewitched.   Oh!  when  love's  devious  ways 

Are  horoscoped,  'tis  then  that  Nature  saith: 
What  mischief  love  and  love  alone  will  cause 
By  mocking  happy  and  consistent  laws. 


XXVIII. 
If  I  have  dared  to  love  thee,  'tis  enough; 

I'll  dare  no  more  !     To  some,  that  were  a  sin 
No  penance  could  absolve.     Yet,  to  such  stuff 

As  wits  call  love,  it  is  more  pure  within 
Than  drifted  snow.     Oh!  rob  me  not  of  chance 

To  prove  it  thus,  or  I  am  dead  indeed. 
Pray  give  it  hope,  and  some  small  circumstance, 

And  it  will  shame  the  thought  that  bore  it  seed 
And  bless  the  soul  it  worships.     Bear  with  it, 

Nor  close  thine  ears  when  it  would  voice  its  worth. 
If  it  lack  opportunity  and  wit 

'Twill  be  fore'er  a  vulgar  thing  of  earth, 
From  which  no  deed  immortal  may  arise 
To  brave  the  power  of  the  utmost  skies. 


FERDINAND   TO   MKDORA.  67 


XXIX. 

When  I  make  merry  with  a  passive  soul, 

Pray  see  me  with  no  penetrating  eye; 
For  there  the  loss.     In  many  a  shallow  role 
I  oft  laugh  outward,  with  an  inward  sigh. 
But  truth's  a  verity,  and  thou  art  truth — 

What  I  may  be  is  little  to  my  mind; 
Youth  is  a  golden  star,  and  thou  art  youth, 
To  whose  fair  light  is  everything  inclined. 
Not  my  enlargement  nor  the  unknown  world 

Beyond  the  misty  courses  of  renown 
Can  make  me  else;  and  what  is  here  unfurled 

Is  passion-painted,  without  jest  or  frown. 
But  these,  my  hopes,   are  built  on  such  loose  earth 
That  this  transcription  shows  a  woeful  dearth. 


XXX. 

Away  dull  care  !    and  all  thy  fears  away  ! 
Go  thou  and  nestle  in  a  royal  skull, 
And  thou  wilt  find  in  poor  discernment's  full 

Great  measure  sleeping  through  a  witless  day. 

Hence,  beauty  shall  inspire  me,  and  I'll  say 
I  was  to  beauty  featureless  and  dull, 
But  am  what  beauty  can  no  more  annul 

Than  pardon.     Therefore,  may  I  not  be  gay ! 
But  hold  a  bit :     Is  this  that  self-same  me 

That  swore  my  love  to  ev'ry  first-born  rose  ? 
O,  God  forgive!  if  true  timidity 

Should  blush  to  murmur  it ;    and  thus  it  goes : 
So,  love,  be  generous,  and  my  song  ill-sung, 
Will  still  be  debtor  to  a  poet's  tongue. 


68  FERDINAND   TO   MEDORA. 


XXXI. 

Those  bald  distinctions  which  grow  poor  with  age 

I  never  craved,  and  thou  dost  know  it  well. 
Not  with  imported  airs  I'll  blot  this  page, 

Nor  with  false  luster  win  thee  by  a  spell ; 
I'll  be  as  plain  as  any  poet  dare, 

And  still  be  poet  to  his  understanding. 
All  things  I'll  hazard,  nothing  will  I  spare, 
To  live  in  humbleness  at  thy  commanding. 
Knowing  thy  taste  gains  little  in  those  creeds, 

Which  most  find  favor  in  the  public  eye, 
I  am  resigned.     If,  then,  my  love  succeeds, 

Its  laurels  are  its  own,  and  signify 
That  love  is  ne'er  disqualified  for  long, 
Though  error  hath  a  reason  for  its  wrong. 


XXXII. 

No,  never,  on  my  honor  as  a  man, 

Will  I  presume  to  have  grown  gravely  wise 
In  humblest  judgment.     'Tis  the  better  plan: 

Time  hath  more  shifts  than  most  men  realize. 
By  this  I  aim  no  slander  at  thy  sex  ; 

I  only  know  what  I've  misunderstood 
And  thought  least  likely.     If  my  actions  vex 
The  soul  of  man,  why,  it  is  well  they  should. 
With  this  uncertainty  before  my  face 

I  still  see  virtue  where  she  ever  dwelt — 
In  thee,  Medora — of  thee,  of  thy  race, 

Before  whose  holy  altar  have  I  knelt 
Heart-lonely,  undetermined,  in  a  spell, 
Where  I  beheld  things  I  shall  never  tell. 


FKRDINAND   TO   MEDORA.  69 


XXXIII. 
I  late  beheld  an  Oriental  dame, 

Decked  in  the  gorgeous  splendor  of  her  race. 
She  sang  of  love,  of  chivalry,  of  fame, 

With  harmony  untold  and  matchless  grace. 
Her  style  was  native  and  the  touch  she  used 
Was  something  marvelously  rare,  indeed  ; 
Also,  a  deathless  spirit  she  infused, 

Made  ev'ry  heart  with  mutual  pity  bleed. 
Methinks  a  love-lorn  look  was  in  her  eyes, 

Which  spoke  a  slavish  inference  to  me; 
But  I  was  cold  to  her  hot-blooded  sighs, 

(For  hath  I  not  of  love  sufficiency?) 
And  with  a  Spartan  courage  looked  her  bold, 
Whom  I  conceived  to  have  a  heart  of  gold. 


XXXIV. 

Things  mutable  and  curiously  strange 

Are  bosom  friends  to  me  and  my  complaint ; 
Indeed,  I  marvel  at  the  interchange 

Of  their  dumb  hospitality,  and  faint 
With  mighty  wonderment ;  whenas,  the  eye 

Of  my  inherent  self  doth  gaze  within 
And  notes  a  motley  phalanx  passing  by, 
Whose  charitable  grace  burns  deep  my  sin. 
Thou  marvelest,  yet  much  needs  be  forgiven 

'Ere  substance  to  its  proper  shade  is  suited 
To  make  love  seem  a  stepping-stone  to  heaven, 

Where  honor  nor  dishonesty  is  bruited. 
So,  gentle  augurer,  do  read  awhile 
The  chart  of  love — may  pity  make  thee  smile. 


70  FERDINAND   TO   MEDORA. 


XXXV. 

While  those  twin  stars  that  glisten  'neath  thy  brow 

Are  still  life-givers  of  a  world  of  light 
And  laws  metrical,  I  am  e'er,  as  now, 

A  lone  apostle  wandering  in  the  night. 
While  this  is  so  (which  seems  forever  so), 
All  is  not  darkness,  tho'  the  sultry  sun 
Hath  faded  from  my  heart.     I  come,  I  go, 
A  living  spokesman  of  a  race  unrun. 

Despair  knows  nothing,  and  conceit  knows  well 
Despair  knows  nothing  :   therefore,  to  despair 
Were  cheaply  bought,  and  cheaply  bought  to  sell, 

While  love  is  dearer  coming  from  the  fair, 
To  fair  well-giv'n.  O!  compass  this  and  say, 
To-morrow  thou  wilt  give  thy  heart  away. 


XXXVI. 

When  this  sad  panic  of  Dismay  doth  cease, 
To  yield  me  its  unwelcome  revenue, 
Then  will  I  fly  these  beaten  paths,  nor  rue, 

The  transformation  born  of  such  release. 

Some  strange  presentiment  hath  I  that  Peace, 
With  greater  measure,  will  unfold  to  view 
Those  paradisian  groves  where  Phoebus  drew 

From  his  fair  goddess  such  a  rare  increase. 
Yet  still  be  kind  to  this  immoderate  tongue, 

Vernacular  and  of  a  minor  key, 
That  sings  dwarfed  songs  'twere  better  left  unsung, 

And  oft  are  limited  to  such  degree 
That  thou  would'st  fain  some  worthy  note  perceive, 
Who  more  were  gratified  to  else  believe. 


FERDINAND   TO   MEDORA. 


XXXVII. 

O,  how  unkind  are  these  my  thoughts  to  me 
That  make  me  seem  more  bitter  than  I  feel, 
Less  hopeful  than  I  am.     If  they  doth  steal 

Love's  earn'ed  income,  can'st  thou  therefore  see 

My  truer  self  is  silent  tho'  it  be 
Impatient  justly:  eager  to  appeal, 
And  yet  still  silent.     Did'st  I  not  oft  kneel 

And  pray  to  love,  this  fact  were  plain  to  thee. 
O,  stubborn  heart!     O,  thing  of  trust  unplaced! 

How  earnest  thou  to  struggle  amongst  men? 
Thy  thoughts  were  dreams,  thy   love  was   double- 
faced, 

And  truth  seemed  variable  in  thy  ken. 
A  beast  of  burden,  thou,  unsexed,  unsouled; 
A  wanton  that  hath  nursed  a  love  for  gold. 


XXXVIII. 
Still  lives  the  love  of  seven  summers  sweet, 

Rosy  and  redolent  with  its  first  light; 
Still  lives  the  hope,  whose  solitary  beat, 
Perpetually  swings  from  left  to  right. 
Think  not  that  any  moment  gone  were  base, 

Insipid,  or  a  scavenger  of  Time. 
Nay,  lady!     I  could  tell  thee  to  thy  face 
What  lies  ill-woven  in  the  cloth  of  rhyme. 
But  'tis  not  meet,  and,  lacking  thy  consent, 

I  am  subservient  to  deeds  ill-done. 
O !  couldst  thou  catch  their  flavor  or  my  bent, 

I  would  rest  easy  with  each  setting  sun; 
For  each  to-morrow  were  a  thing  of  joy 
Which  yesterday's  comparison  would  cloy. 


72  FERDINAND   TO   MEDORA. 


XXXIX. 

Being  thyself,  and  being  nothing  more, 

Then  thou  art  nothing  short  of  fabled  Venus. 
Being  myself,  unskilled  in  cunning  lore, 

How  can  I  brook  the  stops  that  come  between  us  ? 
Nor  will  I  be  a  truant  to  my  love, 

To  open  out  a  path  for  its  neglect; 
Tho'  time  may  tempt  me,  I  shall  aim  to  prove 
That  I  in  love  would  fain  be  circumspect. 
Immortal  wisdom  gave  me  this  desire, 

And  human  reason  cannot  take  its  measure, 
I  love  thee!  and  what  my  love  doth  require 

I'll  give,  and  give  it  with  an  honest  pleasure. 
Renown  is  dead,  that  was  an  ape  of  fashion, 
But  love  will  live  fore'er,  the  noblest  passion. 


XL- 
Reckless  am  I  who  hath  no  star  to  guide  me, 

No  precedent  to  light  my  wayward  course; 
Love  scorns  me,  his  caresses  are  denied  me, 

Therefore  am  I  fit  subject  for  remorse. 

Will  no  one  tell  me  why  I  lack  the  force 
To  hurl  his  studied  insults  in  his  face? 

'Tis  evident  that  barren  is  the  source 
Of  his  mock  sympathy  and  feigned  grace. 

Yet,  none  will  dare!  what  folly  to  presume! 
If  any  should  I  would  not  listen  to  them. 

Words  ofttimes  wear  the  habitudes  of  doom, 
And  are  no  sooner  said  than  said  we  rue  them. 

To  live  not  'neath  some  wisdom  or  restraint 

Bespeaks  a  mad  sad  regency  and  taint. 


FERDINAND   TO   MKDORA.  73 


XLI. 
Thou  in  thy  beauty  lookest  down  upon  me, 

But  not  with  pride,  for  humble  is  thy  bearing. 
Oh!  it  is  well  that  thou  shouldst  frown  upon  me, 

For  who  am  I,  that  art  thy  humor  daring? 
Thou  sweetest  rose  that  doth  forever  bloom! 
Thy  heart  is  rich  and  virtue  is  thy  dower; 
Then  turn  not  thus  away!  let  love's  perfume 
Give  half  its  essence  and  'tis  still  a  flower. 
The  nightingale,  that  sings  its  plaintive  song 
In  God's  still  hours,  is  not  more  sad  than  I. 
The  cuckoo,  with  her  wandering  note  and  long, 
Hath  some  sweet  echo  which  my  words  deny. 
Yet,  while  proud,  high-born  kinsmen  pay  thee  court, 
I  live  a  yoeman  in  thy  hearts'  report. 


XUI. 
Pray,  what  are  names  to  thoughts  which  have  no  names  ? 

Simply  a  bare  reflection,  nothing  more; 
They  mark  distinction,  though  the  sound  defames 

Its  inspiration  to  the  very  core. 
Indeed,  my  tongue  will  parley  with  the  truth, 

And  give  itself  the  lie  if  needs  it  must. 
What  matters  it  ?  'tis  but  a  trick  of  youth, 
And  yearlings  suffer  nothing  from  the  just. 

Moreover,  this  same  birthright,  called  love's  own, 

Is  all  of  thine  to  give  or  take  at  will. 
If  thou  dost  sin,  why  'tis  a  luckless  bone 

That  chokes  repentance  to  its  utmost  fill ! 
Indifference  may  coin  a  right  true  word; 
But  wouldst  thou  condescend  it  should  be  heard  ? 


74  FERDINAND   TO    MEDORA. 


xun. 

However  be  it  in  the  mind  of  man — 

However  their  great  luster  dims  mine  own, 
The  cause  is  simple,  for  I  ever  ran 

In  most  uneven  pathways  to  love's  throne. 
Some  great  moon-madness  touched  me  in  my  sleep, 
And  daylight  robbed  all  sweetness  from  my  soul. 
I  strove  and  floundered  in  the  dismal  deep, 

Yet  ne'er  withheld  mine  eyes  from  one  faint  goal. 
With  this,  the  one  reminder,  were  the  end 

Perversely  nigh,  I'd  chronicle  a  tale 
That  every  still-born  waif  could  comprehend, 

Haunting  the  depths  of  purgatory's  vale; 
And  prove  to  these  skilled  wizards  of  the  earth 
That  love  is  nobler  than  a  titled  birth. 


XI.IV. 
I  am  not  rich  in  any  moral  mood, 

For  honesty  will  never  hide  its  face, 
Which  oft  I  do.     Call  it  ingratitude, 

Or  what  you  will,  for  I  have  not  the  grace 
To  beam  upon  thee  like  a  new-set  star, 
That  pales  to  insignificance  the  sun. 
Yet  let  not  this  confession  be  a  bar 
To  opportunity  with  will  undone. 
The  single  circle  of  an  autumn  day 

Hath  entities  which  man  will  never  guess, 
But  they  will  die,  and  dying  fade  away, 

L,ike  some  great  impulse,  heavy  in  distress. 
Time  lays  the  corner-stone  whereon  is  reared 
The  monumental  perfidy  it  feared. 


LINES  WRITTEN   TO   A   LADY  ABOUT  TO   ENTER 
A   CONVENT. 

Most  virtuous  lady,  may  I  kiss  thy  gown, 
To  show  how  reverently  I  hold  the  law 
That  can  transform  thee,  without  speck  or  flaw, 
From  earth's  mock  habitude?     Yet  look  not  down 
On  this  cold,  heartless  hemisphere,  nor  frown 
At  the  malignity  of  man.     Withdraw 
The  stings  of  high-heeled  vanity  and  awe, 
Self-doting  dizzards,  to  some  fair  renown. 
O  gracious  lady !  cloister  not  thy  love 

In  some  dark  structure,  secret  and  apart 
From  erring  impulse.     Let  the  lights  above 

Shine  in  their  glory,  but  first  through  thy  heart; 
For  sanctity  like  thine  can  win  from  wrong 
Man's  animosity  that  lives  life-long. 


SONG. 

I  know  not  why,  yet  still  it  seems 

Since  first  I  saw  thee  smiling, 
I'm  dwelling  in  a  maze  of  dreams, 

My  heart  my  soul  beguiling. 

Thy  many  charms  and  winsome  ways, 

And  condescensions  granted, 
Hath  brightened  my  unhappy  days, 

And  made  earth  seem  enchanted. 

Oh,  may  these  roseate  views  still  hold, 

No  pulsive  mood  e'er  swerving, 
Like  that  stanch  Rock  of  Ages  bold, 

The  restless  sea  unnerving. 

75 


MARCUS   AURHLIUS   ANTONINUS. 

Aurelius,  thou  man  of  men, 
Of  moralists,  indeed,  sublime; 

A  greater  than  "  what  might  have  been," 
And  spirit  of  all  time. 

No  naked  fact  in  thee  was  lame, 

Who  first  of  man  loved  man  the  first; 

And  all  the  influence  of  fame 

Quenched  not  truth's  heav'n-born  thirst. 

Deaf  wert  thou  to  earth's  echoing  din, 
And  well  the  sluggish  Tiber  knows 

Thou  wert  a  hater  of  all  sin, 
And  soother  of  all  wos. 

A  warrior  within  a  priest, 

Whose  quiet,  unpretentious  skill 

Subdued  the  savage  of  the  East, 
Remaining  human  still. 

Rome  placed  upon  thy  head  a  crown, 
Which  lent  thee  no  presumptuous  air; 

Rome  found  thee  still  without  a  frown, 
And  all  the  world  was  fair. 

The  emperor  was  still  the  man; 

The  man  was  still  an  artless  child, 
Whom  Virtue  premised  as  she  ran 

Her  narrow  path  and  wild. 


BECAUSE ! 

Because  another  failed  to  speak  his  niind, 

Must  I  be  silent  too  ? 
Because  another  lagged  and  lolled  behind, 

Have  I  naught  else  to  do  ? 

Because  the  great  truths  throbbing  in  one's  breast 

Forever  and  a  day, 
Meet,  in  their  utterance,  a  blatant  jest, 

Must  it  be  so  alway  ? 

Because  a  lack  of  ready-ripened  wit, 

To  form  a  well-turned  phrase, 
Is  else  denied  me,  must  I  idly  sit 

And  scoff  at  Hermes'  gaze  ? 

If  such  is  life,  'tis  but  a  living  death 

In  one  ignobly  born; 
A  slavish  birthright,  or  a  poisoned  breath, 

And  earns  a  brother's  scorn. 

Therefore,  begone  !  unrecompensive  mood; 

Henceforth  I  know  thee  not; 
Nor  fear  thee,  thou  base  scullion,  or  thy  rood, 

Thou  filterer  of  rot ! 

Welcome  the  cheer  that  Nature  hath  about  her; 

Welcome  the*sweet-toned  voice 
Of  lovely  woman;  tell  me  not,  without  her, 

A  true  heart  can  rejoice. 

Welcome  a  sister's  confidence,  a  mother's 

Sincerity  and  light; 
Welcome  a  father's  watchfulness,  a  brother's 

Extended  hand  at  night. 

77 


BECAUSE ! 

Welcome  abiding  constancy  and  love, 

Born  of  a  faithful  trust; 
Welcome  great  truth,  inspired  and  above 

A  lean  and  hungry  lust. 

Welcome  the  perfect  days  of  Summer-time, 

And  all  the  joys  they  bring; 
Welcome  the  jingle  of  a  simple  rhyme, 

Which  only  children  sing. 

On  land  and  sea  some  known  yet  unknown  voice 

Invigorates  rny  soul; 
The  myrmidon  within  me  hath  no  choice, 

For  I  am  now  heart-whole. 

So  would  I  always  be,  but  truth  to  tell, 

I  fear  to-morrow's  sun 
Will  bring  the  shadow  that  I  know  too  well, 

And  all  my  days  are  done. 

The  melancholy  blight  is  with  me  still — 

Still  spiteful  as  of  yore  ; 
I  cannot  shed  it,  for  it  hath  a  will, 

And  knows  me  to  the  core. 

Nor  do  I  longer  marvel  at  its  touch  ; 

It  comes  like  an  old  friend 
That  knew  me  once  and  knew  me  over-much, 

Still  knowing  to  the  end. 

If  then  this  liberty  is  dearly  bought, 

Its  substance  is  more  sweet, 
And  like  the  hind  that  lacks  a  human  thought, 

Will  swallow  its  defeat. 


BECAUSE  !  79 

But  while  the  humor  lives  I'll  spread  my  nets 

Beyond  the  Farallones, 
Where  hoary  Neptune  daily  fumes  and  frets, 

Making  his  constant  moans. 

And  when  the  humor  dies  I'll  back  to  land, 

And  jostle  with  the  crowd  ; 
And  few  will  know  and  fewer  understand 

Why  one  man  spoke  aloud. 


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